You Can Skip This Post

No, really. I won't be offended. This is a maudlin post full of bad photos and it's definitely an exercise in self-indulgence.

Though those of you who've been around awhile may appreciate this FB post from my brother:




Cat for Scale ceased to exist on this mortal coil April 8. He was 21, he was euthanised and he never had a health problem or a noticeable ache or pain until the last two weeks of his life. In fact, the many scans and prods and sucks and bleeds and samples and tests yielded nothing.

He just couldn't stand up reliably anymore.

He didn't eat more than a couple of tablespoons of food a day.

He had no interest in kitty treats.

He didn't even have any interest in my dinner.

He spent all day in a kitty bed. I'm going to take it as a testament to his love for me that he hauled his poor little body upstairs for a couple of nights - even though he could hardly walk on flat ground - to curl up next to me.

After that, I carried him up to my bed every night and down to his bed every morning.

It broke my heart to see my sweet, dopey old companion laid low by perversions of age and time like that. I know deep, deep down - so far it's just an abstract batch of words - that it was a mercy and a matter of dignity to put him to sleep.

But I can't shake the feeling to this day that I somehow failed him.

He was the least photogenic cat I've ever seen. That didn't stop me from trying, nor is it going to stop me from collecting all my old Cat for Scale blogphotos here.

Look at him:

He looked stoned...








...or startled...





...or asleep...












...often looking the wrong way...










...rarely in action...








...but always For Scale.






Now I wish I'd taken more pictures.









Thank you for letting me indulge.

Happy Appreciate Your Mother Day

Mom died five years ago today.

I don't like the world nearly as much without her.

Anytime I sit and think about it, I'm so grateful I got a chance to say goodbye and to tell her how much I love her before she left.

Take a moment and tell someone you love just how much, even if you think they already know.

The less regrets in life, the better.

Fascinating

America before Pearl Harbor... in vivid Kodachrome.

Sure, not my usual fare, but I love this stuff. And I love all of you. So I share.

I'm saintly that way.

Excuse #7

The "Why I Have Neglected My Blog" series:

Internet sabbatical.

I've been Internetally active for 17 years. Every now and then, I overload and I don't want to have anything to do with the passwords and the typing and the flaming and the Princespeak and the lost hours and the lack of sunshine.

The combination of Facebook (which I'm growing to loathe, but will lose a bunch of people if I don't stay), Twitter (which I love to death) and this blog (which I need to remind myself is mine and I can do what I want with it) is a lot more than I've ever maintained before.

I was tired of it.

Excuse #5

The "Why I Have Neglected My Blog" series:

Some days I'm just not funny.

Veni Vidi Venti†

I'm dizzy.‡

Job offer. BIG decision. Frighteningly big. Excitingly big. Dizzyingly big. Upsettingly big. Not-sleeping-tonight big.

I need a Magic 8 Ball, like, now.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I came, I saw, I drank a really big coffee?

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): And blushing. Guess how often that happens.

Happy Mom's Day

November 7, 1940 - February 22, 2006.

A Brief Respite from the Hilarity

Dear Friends,

Holly, my newly-minted stepsister-in-law† has been Hodgkin's-free for 13 years.

Mom had Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma before she died nearly four years ago.

In a fit of bonding and in honour of the big ol' empty space where Mom used to be, I'm walking on Holly's team‡ in Light the Night on October 1 in Wash Park here in Denver.

As my uncle, the motivational speaker§ says, "If you don't ask, the answer is always no."¶

I ask that if the cause speaks to you and the timing is right, please click the giant Light the Night button over there on the right and use me as a conduit to donate.

I'll be thankful if you would like to participate and utterly unruffled if you don't.

Thank you for your time. Now go ask someone to tell you a good priest/rabbi/bar joke.

XOXO
M

p.s. -- next week I *promise* pictures of Dr. Doom and a completed knitting project.#


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): One of the not-evil ones.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): The cleverly-named "Holly Holly Hodgkin's Free"

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I am not making this up.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Though I don't hesitate to point out to him that sometimes it's better to beg forgiveness than ask permission. In that case, the whole "no" question is moot.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Because it's been well established that knitting pictures make everything better.

Oh, Nifty

Looks like I'll be taking a vacation to Portland for very little reason in August.

While I'm there, I'll take a class on how to stretch my knitting muscles.

Stupid sparkly Sock Summit.

I am NOT happy.

I AM pouting.

Have a nice day.

I Hate This Time of Year

Every day when I wake up and realise she's not here, I still can't imagine how I will possibly make it to the next day. Dad can get a new wife. I'll never have another Mom.

Heck

Philip José Farmer died this morning.

No more Riverworld, no more Kilgore Trout.

From One Saint to Another

Thanks, Brigid, for giving me something to post on this otherwise postless day.

*************

Sisters of Mercy
by Leonard Cohen

Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone.
They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can't go on.
And they brought me their comfort and later they brought me this song.
Oh I hope you run into them, you who've been travelling so long.
Yes you who must leave everything that you cannot control.

It begins with your family, but soon it comes around to your soul.
Well I've been where you're hanging, I think I can see how you're pinned:
When you're not feeling holy, your loneliness says that you've sinned.
Well they lay down beside me, I made my confession to them.
They touched both my eyes and I touched the dew on their hem.

If your life is a leaf that the seasons tear off and condemn
they will bind you with love that is graceful and green as a stem.
When I left they were sleeping, I hope you run into them soon.
Don't turn on the lights, you can read their address by the moon.
And you won't make me jealous if I hear that they sweetened your night:
We weren't lovers like that and besides it would still be all right,
We weren't lovers like that and besides it would still be all right.

Bach Bach Bach†

I couldn't bring myself to do it.

Despite the fact that I have a *lot* of thoughts‡ on today's Thrilla on the Hill-a, I just can't.

So this is me, signing out on the political brouhaha -- gotta take the trash out. Even with this vast surge of national hope and optimism, I have little faith the trash will take itself out.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Those are chicken noises. Cultured chicken noises.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): That's what I do: think, re-think, over-think, second-guess, repeat.

When Did This Happen?

It doesn't seem that long ago that cancer was a wholly defeatable thing.

I knew several people with cancer who did their time in the chemo chair, dropped some hair and came out the other side. Maybe they had a bigger appreciation for life or a greater respect for their bodies, but they came out mostly unscathed and unchanged.

When Mom told me she had lymphoma, I put my head in her lap and cried for a moment, but I cried because I knew she didn't have an easy road ahead. I also knew she would be just fine. And she was. She was good. She was making remarkable progress. Then she wasn't. Then she was dead.

Starting with Mom, almost everybody I know who was diagnosed with cancer has died.

Kristen, the subject of the spelling bee in March, died Sunday. She was good. She was clean. Then she wasn't. Then she was dead.

I'm so tired and sad. I didn't even know Kristen personally, but she is the latest representative in a long line of people who shouldn't have died. Her friends are my friends and our world is a sadder place.

My psyche is just shattered today.

Hi, My Name is Marin...

(Hi, Marin)

...and I'm bad at dating.

(encouraging applause)

Not in a cutesy, "Oh, isn't dating just the worst... heeheeheeheehee," way, but I'm really and truly terrible at it.

I've been "dating" via the innernets for more than ten years and I'm just fucking awful.

When I go on that first date with someone I've been talking to on Match, I'm filled with apprehension and I render myself unable to talk.†

I grow to dislike and distrust myself, the guy who has to put up with me and -- really -- just about everyone in the world except the waiter who's bringing me a drink.‡

[SUMMARY: You can see why I'm single.]

I'm sure there are several guys out there who wonder how the vibrant, witty creature who intrigued them so on her profile could be the short,§ dull thing that lets the whole evening go one-sided¶ in two minutes flat.#

They probably think I paid someone else to write my profile.

When I have a chance meeting in a happy place,% it's all good. I can tease and flirt and sparkle and revel in my dorkness and my twelveness.

When I email someone for a week or two and set up a date, it feels like a job interview.

[SUMMARY: Guess what I did last night?]

On the plus side, I got to see a lot of DNC stuff -- pretty people in suits going to TiVi interviews, TiVi cameras on every corner,†† vendors selling Obama yearbooks for $40,‡‡ a dog in a baby sling dressed in an Obama photograph, white boater hats with red-white-and-blue grosgrain ribbons 'round the crowns.§§

Riot police in vans... on bikes... on motorbikes... on horseback...¶¶

Protestors and Democrat supporters dressed as hippies... dressed as prisoners... dressed as display racks.##

And the tear gas didn't start until I was back at the office to pick up my purse.††† Two nice security guards in the building apprised me of the spray-painting, window-breaking and the consequent tear-gassing and told me to be careful.

[SUMMARY: They like me! They really like me!]

So at least I have that going for me.
*************

L'Eau d'Hiver - Frederic Malle (edp)

Marin says: I'm anticipating a roll-out on this one. It's the one thing I really expect from a Jean Claude Ellena creation.

The initial blast was citrus, but a carmel scent came up from beneath that pretty quickly. Then something sharp, like menthol.

About a half-hour in, it smells like green wood‡‡‡ and carnation, a wet nature smell like woods after rain.

An hour in, it's wood and carmel.

Four hours down, it's very, very soapy. Meh.

The Perfumed Court says: An Oriental blend of bergamot,$ angelica, iris, hawthorn, jasmine, honey, carnation,$ white heliotrope, caramel$ and musk.

Hans says: Ooooh. That smells like licorice!§§§

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And the closer I get to date time, the more I want to call in sick.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Charming, no? If it makes you feel any better, I rarely drink more than one on a first date. Surly, paranoid, uncommunicative and drunk. Line up boys, I *am* your dream date!

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not height. I don't like about my height. But snappish. And monosyllabic. Can you imagine the girl who regularly uses the word "monosyllabic" being monosyllabic?

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): More than one guy has said, "Am I asking too many questions? Is there anything you want to know about me? Is there anything else I should know about you?"

Yes... I can't date.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): The exception that proves the rule is Soldier Boy, which explains why he calls every time he's in town. Psych 101: Soldier Boy was home for two weeks on leave and was returning to Iraq. Stakes were minimal. Expectations were limited.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Like bars, football games, BBQs or the book store.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): News teams from everywhere were getting background/stock footage of DNC crowds. I must've walked through two dozen view screens yesterday. Look for me on a TiVi set near you!

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Yeah, I don't know what an Obama yearbook is either. Or why it's worth $40.

§§FOOTNOTE (wafts): A look I find charming, though it reeks of political events and barbershop quartets.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (meerkats): It was really impressive when they all took off to do riot control last night. I know a lot of people think Denver is still a cowtown, but it's been a long time since horses have galloped down the streets here.

##FOOTNOTE (two pounds, two pints): You know how some people have so many bumper stickers on their cars you wonder if there's anything they won't honk at? There are human equivalents with t-shirts, hats, buttons and banners all over the place.

†††FOOTNOTE (scent strips): I didn't want to take it into the throngs. Just in case. I left it safe in my office.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE(like tracks through my nose holes): Which is a bitterly green smell.

$FOOTNOTE (on the money!): Ha! Got one!

§§§FOOTNOTE (Hans twirls his hands as he ): Hans got to smell five minutes after I sprayed -- and I bet carmel and menthol smells a lot like licorice.

Back in Body, If Not in Spirit

Let's see...

Tuesday: Finish birthday bragging
Wednesday: Lake re-cap
Thursday: Potential self-indulgent navel-gazing vis-a-vis dreams (you are SO looking forward to that)

But for now...

Lyda have you seen this?

Brainsssss!

Breaking It Down

OK. I've been seriously debating on whether to go public with this post.

In fact, if you feel you want to read it, I'd get through it fast before I change my mind and take it down.

It's personal.

Wildly personal.†

Well... it's not something I'm unwilling to share,% but I very much don't want certain reactions.

I don't want pity.

I don't want fuss.

I don't want platitudes.

Any person who tells me they hope I'm feeling better or that they know what I'm going through or gives some version of the bright side or uses the term "so sorry" or talks about adoption gets banned for life.

Don't test me on this one. I'm deadly serious.

[SUMMARY: Pretty high maintenance for such a little thing.]

I didn't tell eBeth (the SIL) because I knew how she'd fuss.‡ And I knew she'd mean well and I'd have to pretend to appreciate it and I'd really want to snap and maybe cry. So I told Brother and let him pass it on with strict instructions not to fuss.

I didn't broadcast it here or on eVites received or to my co-workers§ or anywhere else. I've been loath to even mention it after the fact unless someone asks me to do heavy lifting or something else that I just can't do right now.

Like button my jeans, which I also can't do right now.¶

[SUMMARY: Holy fucking cats this is difficult.]

Last Tuesday I had a tubal ligation.

Through some uncharacteristically meaningful exchange with a new doctor, we found I have homogeneous Factor 5. Plus some other words I don't remember. It means I'm hypercoagulant and I get it from both sides of my family.

Because of this, they took my birth control pills away. Which sucked.

Because of this, as my doctor put it, "Your birth control options are really unattractive."

Because of this, I'm not to get pregnant. Between my age and my congenital blood thing, I'd be really likely to have a lung embolism and die.

I don't particularly want to die.

So I decided to get spayed.

[SUMMARY: TMI?]

Now, I'm nearly 41. Intellectually, I had come to grips with the idea that the odds of me having a baby were really, really slim. Kate Moss slim. MacBook Air slim. But slim and none are still two different maths.

Especially when I see certain people having babies well beyond their expiration dates.

The boss and his wife had their twins when they were 45.

Annie had hers at 40? 41?

Connie had my little datesake at 40-ish.

I knew I didn't want to be a 65-year-old room mother, but I also knew if the opportunity presented itself, I wouldn't turn it down.

So... breath of hope.

[SUMMARY: There are levels of delusion. I'm happy to hit them all.]

Being told flat out not to have kids was like hitting a brick wall head-first. It jarred. It hurt. It took my breath away.

I have little doubt I would have awakened childless the morning of my 50th birthday# with a twitch and a sigh and a shrug and my AARP card would arrive so at least I'd have that to look forward to.

Attrition through apathy: not heroic, but painless.

But being told "no" sets off all kinds of angst. And rebellion. I'm pretty sure the thought flitted through my head last Saturday morning that if I could get a good fuck in with The Boy, I might put myself in a position to play roulette with my poor little body.

Don't think I wouldn't have. Fraught with danger as that scenario is, I'd have done it.

Don't judge. My conscience went a hundred different paths over the last couple of weeks, but ultimately I made the "right" choice.

[SUMMARY: Right is a wholly subjective term.]

The surgery itself was pretty pleasant. All the doctors and nurses were really, really nice.††

General anaesthesia kicks ass.

I had no post-anaesthesia nausea and my enormous tolerance for pain served me well.

They gave me apple juice and animal crackers when I was awake.

I got to take my space blanket home with me.

Now?

I'm bloated as hell and feel like I have to pee all the time, only not really -- just that horrible pressure you feel when you really have to pee and every time you go over a speed bump or hit a pothole you groan from the pressure of it all.

My stomach is a most festive array of bruises. One incision in my belly button turned the area just below my belly button a confetti of yellow, purple, blue and green. The incision just above my pubic bone has turned the whole range of my belly from hip bone to hip bone the purple the USDA uses to stamp meat. Dark. Solid. Purple.

Cat for Scale is bewildered that he can't do the kitty dance on my stomach every time I sit or lie down.

I'm unusually tired and I'm sleeping all the way through the night, which is really unusual for me. Generally, I get up at least once or twice every night for just a few minutes.‡‡

But mostly I'm kinda sad.

Intellectually, I knew.

In my heart, I still wanted.

[SUMMARY: And I want my mommy in the worst way.]

Despite all the preamble here, I just decided I wanted to let you know.

Now go hug your kids and think of happy things.

And DON'T fuss.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Unlike, apparently, my sex life, which I trumpet from the roofs as it happens. But then, my sex life tends to be amusing, confusing and sporadic, so it's just kinda funny.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Woo-hoo! Way to back-pedal!

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): eBeth is not like the rest of us. She believes in fussing and niceties and near-pathological apologising. How she ended up in this viper's nest we call family, I'm not sure, but maybe some genetic tendency will soften up the gene pool.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Except on a need-to-know basis. Between you and me, it didn't really help, 'cause I told my boss a month ago and continued to remind him every time he'd say, "That first week of June is going to get hairy. We'll have people flying all over the place. How's your schedule at St. Mary's?"

"Well, I'm having surgery on Tuesday, so that may put a dent in your plans for me."

*long pause*

OR

"Probably not next week but the week after, I'll need you in Laramie's offices to go through the files..."

"I'm having surgery Tuesday."

*long pause*

OR

"Next week is going to be hell week. I may need you to go to Grand Junction to help Dan with the EnCana stuff..."

"Seriously. I'm still having surgery Tuesday. I will be completely unavailable Tuesday and maybe for much of the rest of the week. Don't schedule me for anything."

*long pause*

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I confess my jeans are buttoned today. I'm wearing an old pair of size 18 jeans and I can button those. Imagine my joy. Why did nobody tell me I'd be retaining water like the Hoover Dam?

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Probably still fertile in the strictest sense, since that's how we roll in this family. Except probably eBeth. She's different, you know.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): And lord knows what I said before I came out of the anaesthetic. Two minutes after I was conscious, the recovery nurse told me I was the easiest tubal ligation she'd ever worked with. "You're just so funny and nice... it's been a pleasure having you here." Seriously. I hadn't said two words I remembered to her.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I wouldn't even get up, except that any time I wake up, I have to pee. If I didn't eat or drink anything for three days, I'd still have to pee every time I woke up.

Old Friends

I'm in a sentimental place today.

I'm not sure that's even the best word, since there are negative connotations to "sentimental" I've never had any truck with.†

But last night, watching the slideshow presentation on 100 years of St. Mary Land & Exploration, I was taken by surprise at the depth of feeling I have for this industry.

While I know when I tell people I'm in the oil & gas business, I frequently fall to someplace between tapeworm and lawyer‡ on the acceptability scale, I will hold out to the end that not every company runs an oil tanker onto a reef in Prince William Sound and not every oil company cheats its employees and the world in general out of stock benefits.

Not every oil company rapes the earth and bilks little old ladies out of their rightful royalties.

In fact, most don't.

And there are companies like St. Mary that are so conscious, so smart and so close to their family-owned roots§ that I take pride in my long association with them.

Part of what I love about my career¶ is most of what I love about this industry: history. No matter what your overall temperature on drilling and mining, you can't deny the enormous impact they've had on our history. The interstate highway system, fast food and California can all be argued to be inextricably linked to landman activity.%

I like being a part of history. I like that I helped put in the largest pipeline system in Wyoming. I like that my dad did landwork on the Alaska pipeline. I like that St. Mary had Russian drilling permit number 001 after the fall of the Soviet Union.

We're all a part of history, of course, but there are days I feel exactly *where* my place in history might be.

[SUMMARY: Why say in ten words what you can say in ten hundred words?]

Anyway, I'm kinda sentimental today.

So when I was puttering through my blogreading and found Yvette's Excellent Kissing Adventure, I thought to myself, "Self, everybody should take a moment and inventory the truly amazing kisses in their lives.

Seriously.

Go do it.

You might be surprised at the number and/or quality of kisses you remember. You may be astonished at the details you can dredge up surrounding that one perfect liplock.

However it hits you, you can't help having a happy, dopey little moment.

It's good blogfodder, too, if you're inclined to share. Now, I'm not meme-ing you# or tasking you,†† I'm just sayin'... in a totally Blogging Without Obligation‡‡ frame of mind, it could make a cool post, and one that might make you grin in that goofy way you do.§§

[SUMMARY: I love blogs for sentimental reasons...]

I also got an email from one¶¶ of my oldest friends## today. It goes like this:

I knew only you would appreciate this. I generally like the format on Jack 105FM, play anything and everything. However, this week they have had 2 of the worst segues ever.

1. Ironman by Black Sabbath to Summer of 69 Bryan Adams - actually stopped me cold

2. Cherry Pie by Warant to Vacation by the GoGos - from Hair Metal to what ever the hell the GoGo's were.

Do you think they off shored their programming and somebody in India is picking song that they they think go together?

Apu - "Cherry Pie is something you eat on Vacation, so this is wonderful telephonic conversion"

The sentimental connection?

As I was reading the two examples, my immediate thought was, "They've outsourced our radio to India."

Some people, I don't know why I even consider them friends. Others? There's no way we wouldn't be friends.

[SUMMARY: It's a day of absolutes.]

That's my rose-coloured sentimental journey.

I may have to beat a small child to balance my chi after all that.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I'm not a sap. Am *not*!

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): You will note I'm not saying which is more acceptable, tapeworm or lawyer, just that I may fall between.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Philosophically. Literally, St. Mary went public in 1966 or so.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Not job. Career.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Of course, hairy palms and going blind might also be linked to landman activity, but that's not our focus of study.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Stacey.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): All grammar issues aside, if you do blog it, would you please let me know?

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Thus:



§§FOOTNOTE (twisting like the perfect kiss): Oh, I may not *know* you know you, but I know you have a goofy grin you trot out for special occasions.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (March of the penguins. April of the penguins, maybe -- oh, yes it is. It's snowing outside again. 80 yesterday, snow today.): Actually, two. Marky B wrote me from London to say absolutely nothing noteworthy has happened since the last time we corresponded, though he will be in Florida soon and I should drop by if I get a chance.

##FOOTNOTE (pounded like the heavy hand of a bad joke): Well, not old, per se, but I have been bestest friends with him since high school. For a kid who attended five elementary schools, it's pretty awe-inspiring to have a friend for 26 years.

Good Times, Good Times

How come nobody told me?

The Brain Sucker is Starving

Did y'all do the starving brain sucker joke? You massage someone's head with hand in an attitude of a spider doing push-ups and say, "You know what this is? It's a brain sucker. You know what it's doing? Starving."

[SUMMARY: Well... laugh.]

Last night as I was (trying to) fall asleep, I realised I had a handful of semi-related bits† I could blog about.

During the drive in this morning, I was rolling them around, forming them into readable chunks.

As the elevator doors closed to carry me to the 5th floor this morning, I realised I'd forgotten... most of them.‡

[SUMMARY: It's hell getting old.]

Coincidentally enough, most of what I was thinking wasn't maybe so much philosophy as exploration of aging and the sentimental realm.

[SUMMARY: Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.]

For instance, you know the two things I find make me feel old quickest? When kids I used to babysit and haven't seen in years are getting married and having kids and when teachers I haven't seen in years are retiring.

Note the common element.

When you don't see something on a regular basis,§ it arrests at the last place you saw it.

John Kron, my high school drama teacher and director just staged his last musical. He's going to continue teaching, but he probably won't be directing anymore, according to his wife.¶

When I read that, I felt old. He hasn't taught me in years, so he is still my teacher, my director, my mentor... and that's where he stays in the theatre of my mind. To have that jarred loose by reality... *brrrrrrrrrrrrr*

[SUMMARY: Change is good, change is good, keep telling yourself, "change is good."]

Last week, a dear friend tracked me down.%

Mark was the exotic Englishman# who magically appeared my senior year in high school wearing an army green jumpsuit over a Danger Mouse shirt and sporting a new wave sort of haircut.

He sat quietly by himself in the blue commons area,†† checking through homework. Unbeknownst to Mark, a group of were giggling and whispering over him as is the way with teenaged girls. Being the audacious one in the group,‡‡ I bounded over and issued an imperious invitation.

I suspect with that action, I sealed Mark's fate. He could have been the toast of the town, but he fell into the wrong crowd.

Mark was my first gay friend.

Oh, I knew guys I suspected were gay. I knew guys who "turned out" to be gay later. But back in the 80's, there weren't Gay Student Unions and gay couples going to prom and such. It was still a little on the closeted side.

When Mark came out to me, I wasn't nearly as supportive as I could have been. Should have been.

He wrote in his creative writing journal, "I kind of want to fuck Debbie's brains out. Actually, I feel the same way about Dale."

"I'm not sure I'd let anyone know that," I said.

Bad Marin. Bad, bad Marin.

Enough of True Confessions. I hereby humbly and with full heart apologise to Mark for dorking what could have been a shining moment in human relations.

What's really important to today's theme, though, is that Mark said in his last email, "I've been ridiculously nostalgic of late; could be getting to 41 and wondering if the second half of my life will be any better than the first."

"Forty-one?" I thought, "I didn't know Mark was that much older than me."

The memory is the first thing to go.

The logic circuits short out soon thereafter.

You may remember the big deal I made about my 40th birthday. Please remind me occasionally -- apparently I don't.

I still think of Mark every time I see Danger Mouse.§§ I can see him so clearly as the 18-year-old Boy London. I can't reconcile either of us with 41.

[SUMMARY: Oh, dear. Denial is the saddest of all emotions.]

...

...

...

...

...

Um. That's it. I know there was more. Sometime yesterday, there was even a point. I suspect if I could either remember all the bits and bobs OR if I could remember the point, I could back my way into the rest of it and y'all would be very impressed with my acuity and my mad observational skillz. Possibly also my funny.

For now, I think you should take my car keys.

[SUMMARY: If this is Tuesday, what fresh hell will Thursday bring?]

Knitting. I really just need to get back to the knitting. That will make it all better.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Semi-related in that I thought I could stretch to call them all "philosophical."

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): *ahem* I don't think we need to get into specific numbers here.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): And by, "you," I mean "I."

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): It is duly noted that nobody's carving anything in stone. There were a lot of caveats and disclaimers in the email she sent.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Through the magic of Google.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Englishboy? He also had this cool "Boy London" shirt, black and white kinda like "Frankie Says" shirts. We swooned. We called him Boy London for the longest time...

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Until right after I graduated, the school was divided into four commons areas, each one home to a particular class's lockers. They were blue, red, green and yellow. You could eat anywhere you wanted, but it was rare (f'r instance) for red commons freshmen to breach the senior blue commons. They've since filled in the commons areas and made them classrooms, adding one large cafeteria at the end of the school.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Trust me, that's saying something. We were actors, for fuck's sake. Audacious was our bread and butter. Mostly because we were geeks whose only distinguishing factor from the AV crowd was our audacity.

§§FOOTNOTE (awhirl with nostalgia): "Keep your pecker up, Penfold!"