Transformers

My husband found this transformative picnic table/bench on *Amazon and had to have it.

It feels more like a children’s picnic table to me, but he was so in love with it… here it is.

The thing is cute but I was hoping for something more… comfortable. 😉

*Don’t worry, no affiliate links.

Constructing a Laugh

If not ill or depressed I laugh… a lot. It’s my nature. But my sister in law, who is also the BFF, does not. Hardly ever, in fact. Well, unless she sees a video of someone falling. The sort of stuff that makes me cringe. Natural gigglers like myself can have a hard time with non-gigglers.

So I set out to make her laugh.

First, I sent this picture and wrote “I picked this flower for you”.

She replied: “NICE WEED”.

Not put off at all, the next day “Badger helping me clean up the patio” (it’s horrid, no? lots of work left to do if anyone wants to raise their hand?):

No reply at all. Now that’s just rude. At least say something about the dog’s overly long nails. (A personal peeve of hers)

She must be off her meds, so I ramp things up.

“I’m now farming hydroponically”

“YOU CRACK ME UP” says she.

Mission accomplished!

My Husband is…

Romantic. Much more so than I.

He replaced the carb in the big pressure cleaner and apparently decided a love note was in order.

I love that man.

Harley

For Lawrence!

I only rode the Sportster when oldest daughter took over the Honda. Otherwise, it was my husband’s. 😉

These pictures are from the early/mid 90’s.

In the Gloaming

After the flare.

For the first time in my life I’m happy Christmas is over.

It was tough, to say the least. I didn’t cook. Family left early. A card was sent apologizing.

You know that time at sunset when the color flares bright then gradually begins to fade? It’s my least favorite time.

In fact, I like sunrises better.

Surviving

Dad, early birthday.
Dad and Taffy

Dad (seated) aboard ship.

I’m having a difficult time this Christmas. It’s like going through menopause again: sadness, hysteria, anger, bursting into tears for no reason… I was sad when my adoptive parents passed, but losing my father is something completely different. And I only had him for three years! (Here comes the anger again.)

Thought it was getting better but it’s worse. Maybe after Christmas?

Many years ago after a breakup I was gifted the book “How to Survive the Loss of a Love”. It helped immensely and found it was good for other losses as well. Just ordered a new copy.

Now

I’m trying to live in the Now. Not past, not future, just now. You know, like a dog. It’s difficult.

It’s also pretty tough to come up with blog fodder when all the living in Now is mostly in my head. But… here’s what’s happening in my life.

Started: Jana DeLeon’s Miss Fortune series. Currently on book 13: Swamp Spook.

Saying: Christ the King Novena, thanks to Pray More Novenas dot com.

Accomplished: Finally finished painting and cleaning the living/dining room! Now on to the hall.

Recommend: Sr. Mary Martha’s Pause for Prayer on Facebook live every morning. One of the Daughters of St. Paul, she is also singing with their choir.

Looking forward to: Advent and my new Memento Mori Advent companion.

Now: Listening to my sister in law bitch.

Next: Yard cleanup.

Earlier this week: My view from the sofa…

Feted and Ensconced

I loathe funerals. The entire circus: viewing, service, graveyard sobbing while the casket lowers.

Not all people feel this way of course. Funerals tend to be great family reunions. Folks take pictures of the body in the coffin, selfies of themselves with the body and gather in groups for photos that resemble a cheerful event such as a fish fry or church picnic. I can’t count the number of times I asked my mom to identify a group of black and white people (yeah, I’m old) only to hear her reply “Oh, that was taken at Uncle Ollie’s funeral”. To name only one.

My (adopted) father’s funeral in 1978 was about as surreal an event as I’d ever encountered. The body in the coffin didn’t resemble the man I knew in the least and the Baptist preacher pressed into service had a speech impediment and called my father ‘Johnny’, which might have earned him a punch in the nose had the man himself not been dead as a doornail. The graveside service was where I finally woke to the fact that we were going to leave my father there, in the ground. I was the last to leave; the hardest thing I’d done so far in my short life.

I’ve not attended a funeral since and don’t intend to do so. When the inevitable happens I want a Viking send off – well, the cheap redneck version. Put me in a rowboat and push it off into the water armed with an explosive on a timer. Then forget about me because I’m long gone.

While I type this my birth father, whom I’ve had the pleasure of knowing and loving these last three years, is having his funeral in another state. Hope they take good pictures of each other.

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