What If ...

... terrorists discovered how to train squirrels to lie down (simultaneously) across the leads on every transformer on every pole in every part of the country? Would we be incapacited by panic, grossness, or laughter first?

... the talking heads on CNBC actually agreed with each other, just once? Would that qualify as a sign of the Apocalypse?

... no one ever took an entire, long, rainy day just to lie in the arms of the one she loves most? Wouldn't that be the worst world, ever?

... 50 really is the new 40? Would that mean I'd have to restart menopause?

Good God, I hope not.

Laugh more today, dream more today, love more today - for tomorrow you, too, might qualify for age-related discounts with motels, restaurants, and plastic surgeons all over the world.

The Week, So Far

It began with a bang.

Well, more of a "whump." Sunday morning, the first day, the sun was barely up and the Big Lug and I were dozing in and out of sleep. Suddenly, that sound jerked us into reality. "Was that what I think it was?" he asked, quite clearly. Around here, at least after 9/11, if you even hear an overloaded truck rumble on the breeze you stop and listen for a moment. "Uh-huh," I mumbled, "but the fan stopped, too, and - " I lifted my head, squinted at my alarm clock's blank face, dropped back to the pillow, " - no power. Transformer blew."

It was on the street, and our window was open because it's been so hot. It was zapped once before, but during a thunderstorm, not a clear sky. We both knew that, but he got it first and (just in case) looked at the sky - for clouds, for smoke, for a mushroom-shaped ... nah, that's my job. Anyway, he saw nothing that would have caused a problem. "I'll look for seepage," I heard him say as he grabbed his bathrobe. The basement sometimes leaks long after storms (which we'd had Saturday) have passed, and if we had water we'd need to hook up the generator to the new power-thingie that we had put in for just such an eventuality. "And I'll check the outside of the new panel," I said - or think I said, since I was still half-asleep. "Maybe it shorted out." They hadn't actually put in the new meter yet, and it's still a mishmash of old and new power cable.

Nothing, no problems. I called the electric company, reported the outage and the explosion, and got dressed. There was no way I was hanging around if I couldn't make coffee. I was going to Starbucks. While I was struggling into a T-shirt (it was still hot), the Big Lug got a call and described the incident to a repair guy. I left.

Twenty minutes later, as I was sipping the nectar of the gods, he called my cell. "Squirrel," he said in a slightly strangled voice.

"Nuts," I returned, baffled by this word game.

"No, honey, a squirrel. Stretched out on both leads. Not much left now but a powdery - "

"Ew," I said.

"Uh-huh," he said, "we were awakened by an exploding squirrel."

The company man changed the transformer equivalent of a fuse (involving silicone cable and some kind of "tongue" lever or switch - the Big Lug was describing the procedure in gleeful detail, but I couldn't picture it) and, after moving seamlessly from the fearful to the ridiculous, everything was back to normal.

"Normal," of course, being relative. I am, apparently, once again the center knot in a (student's) parental tug-of-war. You'd be surprised how often that happens - teachers and care providers are cannon fodder in any ongoing war of ex's. Usually, it's a divorced husband and wife - one who paid, and one who didn't - but this time it's a stepmom and a mom. I spoke to both of them, without knowing I was supposed to only talk to the step. Now I have a password that I must ask for before I give any information to anyone, and under no circumstances am I supposed to talk to the mother at all.

Exploding squirrels give you perspective. I chose absurdity.

Good thing, too, because I was digging up more "sod" this morning, and, after a needed and earned break, came out to find this:



Flamingoes. One of the Lug's sisters sent flamingoes. Today is halfway between our birthdays, which, I suppose, is the perfect time to send it, if there's ever a perfect time for flamingoes. Very attention-grabbing, for sure - I was outside stripping sod until the 90-degree mark hit, and every person who passed, in cars or with their dogs, slowed to look, even wave and honk. Amazing what a flocking bunch of flamingoes can do, isn't it?

There was a single, sublime moment, too - I saw a rose-breasted grosbeak at my feeder as I was formatting the type here. I've never seen one in real life before. On my 40th, Mama Angel sent me an indigo bunting, and now I did the same thing I did then, just grinned and grinned and ... yeah, I'm a geek. But what a way to wind down this bizarro beginning-of-the-week.

So next comes a long, cool shower and a couple of tutorial students, then a good book and a snuggle with the Big Lug. At least, that's the agenda. Gotta tell you, though, if there's something waiting that can top flamingoes, grosbeaks, knotty ropes, and exploding squirrels, I won't mind a hiccup in the plan - as long as I can treasure it, too.

Writing It

I've been a little whiny lately. (No, really?) I don't know why, and I don't excuse it, but I'm not going to do it any more. Acid Trip told me a few weeks ago that if I don't have anything to say I should say nothing. I have plenty to say - mostly more of the same, which, since I refuse to give into the snivelly side, means this will be a short, news-oriented post.

And it's good, actually. More work this week, more work coming - I'm giving up a couple of Saturdays but it's worth it. I've had enough of the half-checks. I can't eat yard sale finds. I thank Heaven I have a job in which I can increase the hours at will (at least some).

And I don't want to jinx anything, but Head Trip has been approved for the apartment she really wants - bigger than many, and a bit over her head but with a second (at-home) job she can swing it. We're going to check it out together tomorrow - she's seen a similar one, in a different building, and she wants my opinion on the actual place. I'm so proud of her for not only finding her path but being willing to walk it.

The yard is progressing apace - slowly, of course, because of the lack of discretionary funds to blow on it, but piece by piece, bit by bit, I'm not only clearing the beds in front of the house, I'm dumping the dirt and scraggly stuff into the ditches, filling them up like crazy. Rain for the past few days proved it not only won't die but it's a pretty lush green, which is all the Big Lug cares about. (Weeds can be killed next year, right?)

Oh, and I broke into my piggybank to buy a wheelbarrow to replace the one I broke over the weekend. It took an hour to put together today. I haven't used it yet. Cross your fingers.

That's pretty much it. I've been reminded this week that life is mostly about putting one foot in front of the other, about holding onto my inner smile with both hands, and about focusing on and having faith in your goal - because it doesn't matter how much you fight it, worry about it, whine about it, or write about it, everything will work out how it must.

And mostly, that means something wonderful.

Eventually.

Doing It ... And Overdoing It

It's been a week. Yard work and work-work, babysitting and fence sitting, hunting galore ... I got a lot done. Unfortunately, it's showing.

My hands are twisted and cramped - I can't make a good fist or even straighten my fingers completely. My brain is fatigued as well - I taught two night classes, one day class, and tutorial students who were catching up from spring break. I had a sort of Bacchinalia, too, and the scales reflect every (considerable) extra calorie, but even more so does my waistline - I feel like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man today. To top it all off, my neck and my shoulders are sore and knotted from the triple whammy of shovelling dirt, "lawn," and bull puckies (four calls to and from my parents). I smiled a lot, too, because I dealt with family almost every day - my cheeks ache from simultaneously holding it in place (sometimes) and biting my tongue. Yes, it was just that kind of week.

I loved it.

Okay, not the hurting part, or the eating-everything-that-wasn't-nailed-down part, but the part in which I kept going anyway was very cool. And that's how I felt. Cool. Serene. Able to go with the flow, use every minute for something productive (or something gastronomical). It was truly amazing.

Why am I feeling it then? Because I found out I can't shut it out completely. No matter how peaceful I am inside, apparently, the outside has really bad habits - push my long-standing buttons, and even though the mind knows better, the body reacts anyway. Irritation, anger, frustration, impatience ... doesn't matter how imperturbable I know I am, the muscles know the quickest way to Cramp Central. Yet I managed. Not only managed, but had fun, even found a few treasures - several nice pieces of jewelry (silver, gold, and even diamonds - small and low-quaility, but real), and a couple of nifty toys for the Big Lug. In addition, I filled in two huge chunks of yard where former trees have decomposed into swales, and I planted bulbs and seeds which (hopefully) will sprout this week. I broke the lawn cart, bought a wheelbarrow, priced the stone for the edging on the front beds, and the Big Lug turns 50 today.

Nope, can't just sneak that in, can I? Today's his birthday. His 50th. I'm writing this very early in the morning, letting him sleep late while I get Princess ready for school and hurry through a post - I don't know what we're doing today, but we're doing something. Something not 50-something. Something late. Something ... I have no idea.

Which is good. It's his day, not mine. I don't have to know everything, right? And it's good to admit the numbers, because it helps me acknowledge that maybe the body aches are from work, as I said, or maybe just habit. But maybe the ticking clock is getting to me. If today is his 50, then I have only a few years - okay, twelve - left to reach my goal. That seems like a long time, on paper, but it isn't, especially with the economy doing its best imitation of a sinking ship. Plus, time, a relative thing, moves faster as we age - I'm still trying to figure out where February went (I don't remember any of it). That means my end game is right around the corner, more real (and more scary/exciting/awesome/what-was-I-thinking?) than it ever has been.

Funny thing is, that's as it should be - I am tired, because every day, whether I remember it or not, I am moving forward. Every day is and has been another purposeful step closer to seeing his jaw drop in stunned amazement, his face light up with joy, when I am finally able to give him what he's always given me - a choice.

That's what keeps me going, what keeps me here, even what keeps me calm - knowing that I not only have been but that I will make it to that day.

One nail/shovel/weed/stone/coin/day/hour/minute at a time.

Feeling It ... All Over

We had buckets of rain over the past few days. For me, that means puttering around the house - vacuuming, organizing, paying bills ... spending four hours tearing the place apart looking for my car title so I can take it to DMV and clear it (seriously - a year after I paid it off). Today, though, a sunny, warmer day, I've gone back to the garden - well, the yard, anyway. Faced with squishy grass and muddy pools where dirt used to be, I decided to forgo the beds and edge the lawn. It's taken me three hours. So far.

Three hours.

Part of that absurd total I can attribute to laziness (I didn't bother to edge all last year, and my yard went all Chia on me) and part to stubbornness (I have an electric edger but I swore to go green, right?). Mostly, though, it's because of ... yes, it's all about vanity.

I like how I look now. After fifteen years seesawing between 175 and 250, I'm steadying out, buffing up, pulling my ass back (against the incredible force of gravity). The last time I went to Weight Watchers, I hit the 80 pound mark. (Lost. By me. 80 freaking pounds!) It took me 2 years to lose, three months to maintain, but somehow - somehow - I must keep it off for a lifetime.

Diet, yes (addicted to fruits and vegies ... I love summer!). Self-talk, yes (easy 19 days out of every 25 ... impossible 2). But for pure, unvarnished toning, aerobics, and strength work, you can't beat the great outdoors. The garden, especially, is prime double-duty-Bunny territory - every major muscle group gets a workout most days, with the bending and stooping and squatting and pushing and pulling ... and whatever I do, no matter how small the job, my workout makes my home more beautiful. And as long as my shovel holds out, it's free, too. Is that a deal, or what? Since our house sits on a wedge, big side in front, that's (quite literally) a butt-load of edging when you do it with hand tools.

The only drawback, of course, is pain. Between the leg work (cutting the sod) and the back-and-arm work (shovelling off the sidewalk, dumping in a can), I'm feeling the burn. (Oh, Mama, am I feeling it!) I know the parts I'm strengthening (trust me, hard to miss) and I know the parts I'm beautifying (I'll take a picture later, to remind me), and I'm excited. I am. I'm making pretty, upping the curb appeal, caretaking my assets, all that good crap. It's important. I know that. And I'm almost done. At this moment, I have only one bit left, one long pass to go.

One really long pass ...

Hey, how about those Blues? Any other hockey fans out there? I can talk all day about hockey, really I can. Anybody?

What? Of course I'm not avoiding it by lingering here. Honest. I just really, really like hockey. And baseball. And the new Sookie Stackhouse novel. And ... and quantum physics. Honest.

Anybody?