Quarantine: Day 15

All you ladies out there worried about your roots – there’s plenty of boxed hair color out there, AND it’s on sale this week!

We have ants in our house. It’s the usual Spring exodus, but they’re in my walk-in closet! I bent over to pick up a pair of shoes and they scattered. I just turned off the light and walked out. Like really, what am I going to do about it right now?

You know what? As long as he’s still tanning his face, we can continue to believe it’s not that bad. If his face suddenly becomes white, we’ll know we’re all gonna die.

Probably not the best time to re-watch Wall-E.

My cuticles look like a shark has been chomping on them.

Speaking of which, Todd managed to impale his finger – I mean crush (I stand corrected) – between the transmission and the something-something (whatever it’s called) and it got infected so he is presently on antibiotics and can’t drink. After my second drink, I pretend I don’t notice him giving me the stink eye.

I chased a vulture off my roof this morning for doing Riverdance over my living room ceiling.

Communication signals continue to get crossed inside the house. It’s why I drink.

Work life will shift next week into two teams with steady hours, assured through the end of May. Finally, I’m on the A Team! Squeee!!

I’m currently doing 2 miles a day on the treadmill. Why not run outside, you ask? Because I haven’t done so in a couple of years due to knee troubles. That’s not to say I’m not gearing myself up for an attempt. You’re never too old to run a 5k, again.

It takes approximately 18 toilet paper squares for #1. No count yet on #2. (I’ll ask the men to weigh in on that one.)

My dad, Silverfox, called me while he was out cutting the hedges per my stepmom, and he warned her it was going to look like a cone. He says one looks like Bart Simpson. And he hasn’t even had his first beer of the day.

I’m glad we had a nice talk, even if he spent half of it in hypertensive tones, because it always ends with laughter.

Sorry-not-sorry current binge: Gossip Girl. I’m not ashamed. It’s ridiculous but I need to see it through to the end. Completely dumb reason I started this show? Penn Badgley and YOU. (Bonus: I now know who Blake Lively and Leighton Meester are.)

Last night Don Lemon and Chris Cuomo were on CNN and aside from updates and another appearance by Dr. Sanjay (really, does this man do anything else?), it was a heartwarming love fest between them where I could’ve sworn they said they loved each other. Might’ve been the wine. I’m not sure.

Todd bought me something extra special on Amazon. I can’t wait to get it! Stay tuned.


Dream from the Rabbit Hole: Gone to NYC with family friends to see Billy Joel. There are easily two dozen people in our group, including my dad. We get separated once on the walk to the venue from our bus, but since I know my way around I’m not worried. The streets are nearly empty. We finally get to the venue and our group is waiting outside and extremely confused about which entrance is the right one. I’m annoyed and impatient, but trying not to be rude to our friend who planned and paid for this whole thing.

We get inside finally and I find myself separated from the group. I stand in front of one section looking for any face I recognize. I decide to call my dad and ask him to stand up so I can find him, but my phone is at 3% and I can’t get a call to go through. I walk to the back of one section and drop my bag down on an empty seat, which happens to be right outside the restroom, to look for my charger. I start to cry because I can’t find it and I’ll never locate my group. Eventually someone from the group walks by, in a big fluffy white bathrobe, on her way to the restroom and sees me. I ask her to please wait for me because I don’t know where they are. I lose her inside the restroom and then I wake up.

Day 14: The Common Denominator

That’s apparently what I am, since Todd and O don’t go out, and V and her dad and stepmother don’t go out. I’m the only one working outside the house.

It was decided, based on a handful of discussions, that it was best for V to stay put with her dad and O to stay put with me for the foreseeable future. It’s the last thing I want, to be separated indefinitely from my daughter. Emotions are running high now. V seems okay with it, for now. O, by stark contrast, was not happy. This is so not a good place to be only 14 days in.

Shout out to my brother, who talked O down off the wall Monday night. I am so grateful for his voice and his relationship with his nephew. The young man who emerged from his bedroom after that phone call was the polar opposite of the one shouting into my phone two hours earlier.

Latest dream from the rabbit hole: the rear passenger side tire is flat on the convertible. I move the car and learn that the whole damn wheel is broken. Like – in HALF. Opac is there. He offers to help but I don’t think he knows how to use Todd’s compressor any more than I do. (What the hell are we going to fix with that?) I need a car. I’m going to miss work. There’s a theme developing here.

Todd “goes to work” in the office downstairs. I hand him his coffee and he kisses me goodbye. Gotta keep up routine. Yesterday he asked me, what should I wear? I suggested he wear a shirt and tie, and boxer shorts. Have to keep things spicy.

He’s still singing Kenny Rogers songs. And he’s growing that sexy gray beard again. A tribute to The Gambler?? I’m not sure how long it will last, so I’m not saying anything.

I took PPL yesterday and drove an hour north to meet V’s dad with insulin and pump supplies, in case for any reason we aren’t able to connect. This whole situation is what they’re calling “fluid” at work. Anything can change, at any given time. Todd asked me how V was, because he knows me so well. (She was there and I DID hug her, with a mask on, so sue me.)

I’ve spent roughly $120 on diabetes supplies in the past week, and $500 on groceries, which is ironic considering I can’t get meat or canned and paper goods. The good news is, there was some stock available in the store today, to ease my anxiety a bit.

Fergus hasn’t been back. Maybe I’ve scared him away. Maybe he’s self-quarantining.

My vodka is almost empty and I’ve gained 5 pounds. Mom says I better get to the liquor store before they close too. I have no interest in going anywhere I don’t have to, but the supply is dwindling.

Pennsylvania has closed their liquor stores. Maryland’s remain open. Makes one wonder why – when every business has been ordered to close – liquor stores remain “essential” businesses. Because if we’re all drunk, we’re easier to control? How’s that for a conspiracy theory?

I have noticed that I’m starting to reconsider how much TP I’m using. I wonder if Todd or O has thought of it. I bet not.

On that note, this morning I realized how lucky I am that I’m quarantined with two MEN. If this was a house full of females, we’d already have been out of toilet paper. My condolences to those with daughters at home.

I have grand ideas of the projects I’m going to get done, and every day they’re still on my to-do list. Maybe today I’ll get one of them started, maybe not. It’s anybody’s guess.

I have received the instructions and access for remote work. This appears to be rolling out next week. I don’t have all the details yet but I need to work on setting up my laptop today. Or tomorrow.

Sabra has not had her bath yet.

At some point we’ll all be too tired, won’t we? Tired of staying home, tired of wiping doorknobs and countertops, tired of wondering if the grocery store has restocked butter and milk, tired of reading, tired of Netflix, tired of watching loved ones eat and wanting to strangle them?

Tired of listening to Cheetolini (who, by the way, is still tanning his face in the middle of a PANDEMIC) feed the public all the bullshit and using his expertise about a new deadly virus and the promise to get life back to normal maybe as early as next week?

The next, obvious, and completely rhetorical question is, is he kidding?

Meanwhile, last Friday a coworker shared a video of Aunt Mary Pat singing a parody of Jolene and now my ear worm sings COVID, COVID, COVID nineteeeeene all day every day. It’s been six days since I first heard it and the one-billionth time I’ve replayed it in my head. If you don’t know who Aunt Mary Pat is, here it is.  *If you hate ear worms, DO NOT click on this link.*

Day 11

Random Notes:

Still have plenty of TP.

We’re all gaining weight, even the dog, who is getting more treats from everyone in the house than she’s ever had.

The drip in the kitchen faucet is diabolical.

Dropped a bar of soap in the shower and learned it’s just as loud as a shampoo bottle.

Star Wars marathon?

My plants, for the first time in like the history of EVER, are thriving. My liver, not so much.

The dreams are growing more bizarre with each night, while some remain seriously realistic – like my kids being late for school and I have to drive them but I haven’t showered yet or packed my lunch and the kitchen counter is covered with hoarded items and the bathroom where I need to shower looks like something straight out of a camper – showerhead extending out over the toilet and where’s the drain? I’m not even looking any of this shit up in my dream dictionary.

Who wants horoscopes??

I yelled at Todd for eating the peanuts and he yelled at me for feeding them to Fergus.

Who else out there thinks we’re all going to die, buried under a mountain of Pinterest crafts?

Considered two new additions to the compound. Also considered how much it will cost to feed and groom THREE dogs.

Speaking of grooming, Sabra was scheduled this week for her routine grooming. Obviously…. Todd and I are going to have to do it instead. This could get ugly. Stay tuned.

The paper goods aisle is empty. I guess they bought up the tissues and paper towels since they couldn’t get TP. That’s all fine and good, unless you have a septic system.

I suggested to O that we pull out Risk, and he said – and I quote – “that game takes forever, like days.” I said, “that’s all we have.” “Oh yeah.”

Later that day, “what if Yoda was the Sith they were looking for?” He also wondered what if the Jedi were on the dark side and Palpatine was the good guy? I suggested he write that version. He said he wouldn’t know what to write. I suggested he just start with concept, and revealed that I often don’t know what to write or which direction to take. It all starts with a laptop, a quiet room, and listening to yourself.

At the time of this posting, he has not cleaned his room.

Zoom meeting friends last night! We raised our glasses and wondered how long this would last. (The shut-in, not the meeting.) It was short –because it was 11 pm and we all needed to go to bed – but worth it. I see more of these in my future. We’ll call them, #ZoomandDrink.

Todd recited the April showers bring May flowers incorrectly as March showers bring April flowers and, when I corrected him, he insisted he was right. No, it’s APRIL showers bring May flowers.  That’s wrong, he said. I told him he was wrong. Then I remembered that saying, do you want to be right, or do you want to be married, and decided to shut up. It’s going to be a long quarantine, they say, and we can’t afford to be bickering amongst ourselves about stupid shit, right? There will be plenty of time for annoying each other.

He has also begun texting me when he thinks I’m not listening to him.

We have a leaky pipe he had to repair this morning, only to find there was more to it to fix.

Other things failing miserably: the aforementioned kitchen faucet, the refrigerator, my will-power.

Got into an “exchange of words” with a woman from a neighboring town who said people in my town (which she referred to as Mayberry) “still think it is 1920 not 2020 and cousins marry cousins there.” Given her grammar skills, I should’ve just let it go. But – the keyboard warrior in me just can’t stay retired. This is the shit that got me in trouble with my mom when I was young.

Started reading The Beautiful Ones. There’s a photo of him with a guitar sitting on a bed, barefoot. I never imagined that he had feet. I can’t stop looking at that foot. It’s got me so distracted. It’s been 3 hours and I’m still thinking about it.

I don’t think any of us will get out of this without really bad hair, clothes that no longer fit, and liver disease.

Quarantine – Day 10

Just rolled out of bed and have not had my coffee yet. Todd is singing “Lady” in the kitchen, loudly, and I’m trying to ignore him. Sensing this, he turns his attention to Sabra and sings to her – which of course she loves because – treats.

“…. Saaaabra, your love’s the only love I need…”

“And it’s the only love you’ll have if you don’t stop singing that song.”

It’s day 10 of “quarantine” and it’s overcast this morning at 8 a.m. and much cooler than yesterday’s 76 degrees. Kenny Rodgers has passed away, not from coronavirus (I don’t think), and the world has lost another legend.

The cesspool of misinformed idiots on Facebook making hoax claims and hysteria-mongering statements about the government wanting us locked down so they can control us for anything other than the spread of a deadly virus with no cure, has settled somewhat. Instead, the news feed has been flooded with pictures of empty store shelves and memes about toilet paper and homeschooling.

The empty store shelves initially have no effect on you, kind of like hearing about a little virus making thousands of people on the other side of the world sick. Can’t happen to us. Except yesterday. Opac and I went to the store to pick up some food/essentials, albeit at the absolute wrong time of day, and aisle after aisle we pushed our cart through was empty. I mean, EMPTY. NO frozen foods. NO meat. NO boxes of pasta. NO canned goods. AT ALL.

But plenty of chips left, which is where I ran into a friend and promptly burst into tears. It’s odd to stand so far away from a friend in conversation, crying, surrounded by salty snacks. She and her daughter stood next to each other, while O and I stood next to each other.

I went to work yesterday, because healthcare. Todd didn’t want me to go. I don’t really want to go either, but I have to admit it was comforting to be there, a stark change from last Friday –day 2 of quarantine – when it was all so fresh and scary and we knew less.

In the mornings, we see only children 18 months and younger who need to keep up with the immunization schedule because the CDC does not want to see a return of measles and pertussis in the middle of this. We see sick patients in the afternoon and I can count on one hand how many we saw yesterday. We don’t have much work to do. It’s boring as hell but we keep up the laughter and this little bit of normalcy going to work is what helps.

We have Town Halls every day during lunch, except yesterday’s had to be cancelled in media res because some asshole who conferenced in didn’t mute his/her phone and the speaker, after multiple requests for folks to mute their phones in a voice much kinder than I would’ve used, decided to end the meeting. Really. How many of these have we had now? It’s not rocket science.

Meanwhile, Veruca returned home on Wednesday (day 7). We ignored the 6-foot distance and hugged continuously until she’d had enough and disappeared into her room. Later, she asked to braid my hair and I acquiesced, knowing full well I was going to look hideous like the last time. She insisted I didn’t look ridiculous before cracking up.

I dragged out Opac’s old Legos – four large boxes – commencing to rebuild his old sets. Todd was all in. And then I started getting edgy because he stepped in on my cleanup of the VW van for a moment – and that’s when I realized how the funny memes about families being trapped together for days are going to be so not funny in a few weeks.

O and I were talking a mile a minute last night in the kitchen over dinner, and – because I don’t want ya’ll to think I’m not annoying too – Todd interrupted me and I knew without him saying anything more that I needed to stop shouting and slow down.

So. Day 10. It’s now 9 a.m. on a Saturday and Todd has already designed a $60k addition on the back of our house with two bowling lanes in it and I’ve nearly finished my pot of coffee. V is back at her dad’s house – both he and his wife are now home indefinitely with all the shut-downs – and I’m glad that he’s a certifiable germaphobe who will protect her like a warden. O is still sleeping. He’s now accepted his lockdown sentence and we will be finding activities to make it a little less miserable. Not the first of which will be a deep cleaning of his smelly bedroom.

I have a handful of nuts I’m hoping to befriend a squirrel with. He came visiting on Day 8 with a giant walnut in his mouth… right up to the sliding glass door on his hind legs looking in. I have every reason to believe this is the same squirrel who buried a whole peanut in my planter on the deck and forgot about it, the same squirrel who “buried” a nut inside on our grill, and the same squirrel who used to peer in at Oliver sunning himself on the opposite side. I wondered briefly if he was actually looking for him.

I put a peanut on the doormat and waited for him to come back and he did! Sat on hind legs and gobbled it up. I’ve named him Fergus.


Stay strong! Stay healthy! Be responsible!







Roxy and June Take Cafe Iguana

“I got a six-pack of tall-boys for me and three coolers for you.” Roxy breathlessly bursts into my apartment with a large paper bag. She’s ready for action in her Norma Kamali jacket and short black skirt and, judging by the way she’s swaying slightly in the doorway, I know she’s already had at least one on the walk over. I don’t think we’ve ever gone out sober together.

I twist the cap off my first cooler, taste the sweet tanginess of the bubbles on my tongue, and examine myself in the mirror. Tonight I opted for a black wraparound top and black miniskirt. Got my infamous “witches shoes” on, the little pumps with the four straps across the top and grommets pinning them all together.

“Can’t wait to meet some awesome guys tonight to sweep us off our feet!” She says enthusiastically, smiling broadly as she hikes up her skirt to adjust her tights. I’m not sure I need some stranger to sweep me off my feet, but I’ll settle for some attention in light of my recent breakup with Christian. I don’t mention him, because she’ll scold me for pining over him again.


“Ugh! The line is so long!” Roxy whines melodramatically, as though there were a hundred people in front of us. In fact, there’s all of ten people, mostly men, waiting outside Café Iguana.

We’re in less than ten minutes later. Even though I’ve been here a half-dozen times, it still inspires a little bit of awe upon first entering. It’s not a big place, but it’s always wall-to-wall people. As in, I don’t know what the fire code is, but they’re dangerously close to a violation.

The wide, L-shaped bar is already three deep with people, the dance floor full, and the path around it all is crowded with bodies. Looking up to the open second floor,  past the giant iguana wrapped in Christmas tree lights and suspended from the ceiling, I see people lining the railing, overlooking the dance floor, jamming to Everybody, Everybody.

The male to female ratio seems to be about eight to one, and Roxy and I are probably the youngest ones in there. Most of the men are older, still wearing the suits they wore to work today. Simply put, the place is a meat market, and she and I are passing inspection by dozens of shameless eyes. I don’t much care for the place but she talked me into it, promising a good time. Whatever. It’s always fun with Roxy. If nothing else, it’ll certainly be entertaining.

As I push my way straight ahead to a small clearing near the DJ, I feel a hand brush my ass. What the hell! It’s almost impossible to avoid contact in a bar this crowded, but I suppose if you don’t like it stay home. It’s also so crowded it’s not only difficult to know what was intentional and what was not, but who you made contact with. Roxy is giving someone the evil eye.

Once we get to the clearing I turn back to face the “dancefloor,” which is one step down from where I’m now standing and looks like a writhing, rhythmic movement of limbs and bodies. Everywhere, people are scoping people out. I scan the sea of faces and spot a cute one, at the moment his eyes rest on me. He’s smiling at me, but there are far too many people between us and the bouncer gives me a nudge.

“Keep it moving!” he bellows, his voice booming over the thrumming beat in my ears.

“Go to the bathroom!” Roxy shouts into the back of my hair. I can hear the irritation in her voice, and I know without looking she’s got the look that kills all over her face. But people are moving so damn slow, some not moving at all, that it’ll take us an hour to get where we’re going. Someone’s spiked heel sinks into my foot. Ow!

I wonder why people come here. Why am I here? Oh yeah – I wanted to have an evening no other bar could offer. I can’t explain why, except that the people who come here are a little wilder than what I’m used to. Café Iguana is not our “usual” bar scene.

Anyway, ten minutes and a few bruises later, we finally get into the bathroom. It’s always steamy and the hairspray has literally burnt a hole in the air supply. There are already five girls in here, one doubled over the attendant’s stool with her head between her knees. The stall directly in front of her is empty, with the door wide open. I hear faint moans coming from the one next to it, a pair of red shoes peeking out from under the door. The attendant looks frazzled and I feel sorry for her; this is a thankless job and tonight is no exception.

“He’s so awesome, you know? He said I have the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen,” a short brunette in an orange bustier says to a taller version of herself, who is wearing a black cropped top that barely covers her breasts.

“It’s so hot in here,” Roxy says to me, patting the back of her neck with a paper towel. She bends over and flips her long hair to make it fuller. I pull out my lipstick and lean into the mirror. The two girls, leaning into each other giggling, open the door to go out.

“Guess who’s getting a ride home tonight?” I say sarcastically, watching them stumble out the door, the sudden splash of loud club music pouring in as the door slowly closes behind them.

Another girl in a spandex outfit, who has been primping herself at the mirror since we walked in added, “yeah, every guy in here is only after one thing.” Her eyes never leave the image in the mirror. She grabs one of the hairspray cans on the counter and sprays her six-inch blonde bangs, as if they would dare to move anyway.

“Yeah, just once I’d like to meet a nice guy in a bar… my knight in shining armor!” Roxy says flippantly, laughing at herself in the mirror.

“Oh yeah – tall, dark, handsome, rich, nice red Porsche…” the tall blonde adds with a thoughtless smile. I guess there’s no harm in dreaming. I don’t think I’ll meet Mr. Wonderful in Café Iguana, or any bar for that matter. Any relationship just seems, I don’t know, doomed that way.

Roxy and I head out to the bar – a formidable attempt to get a drink. She plows her way through the crowd of dancing drunks like a boss. Something cold and wet spills onto my arm, and I feel a tug on the back of my hair but I don’t turn around. Roxy’s going full speed ahead and I don’t want to lose her.

When she finally reaches the bar, she leans seductively over it, waves her AmEx card, and orders two Long Island Iced Teas. I stand behind her like a shadow, waiting for her to hand me my drink. She’s talking to some guy with a pony tail next to her so I survey the crowd, hoping to catch sight of my friend with the gorgeous smile.

As I mentioned, the men here are mostly mid-to-late twenties; some businessmen judging by the suits, some look like they could be models  – a veritable sea of dark-haired men (haven’t quite figured that one out yet). There are few standouts – meaning, they don’t fit the unspoken criteria for entry and yet here they are.

I accidentally catch the eye of this scary-looking, slightly balding older man. I quickly look away, but in this arena I already know it’s too late. I made eye contact. He empties his glass and slithers over to me. I try to engage Roxy in conversation, but she’s deeply engrossed in Pony Tail and she merely hands me my drink and turns back to him.

“Smile!” Baldy leans in and smiles at me. “Aren’t you having a good time?” He says something else but I don’t hear him over the noise.

“Observing. It’s what I do.” I don’t look at him, but continue searching the crowd for someone. Anyone.

“Well, I was watching you and you have the most gorgeous smile I’ve ever seen.” What a line of bullshit! I feel like saying something rude, but instead pretend I don’t hear him. Go away, go away, go away….

“What’s your name?” He’s not getting the hint. I’m getting annoyed. I take a long sip of my drink, and shut my eyes to savor the dizzying effects of the liquor. There’s really nowhere for me to go; I’m surrounded by people and I don’t want to lose Roxy.

“Hey!” Roxy yells into the back of my hair, slapping her hand down on my shoulder. I spin around, nearly spilling what’s left of my drink. She introduces me to Pony Tail, whose name is Damon. He is something to behold. He smiles a perfect smile, and his eyes linger briefly on my breasts. Jesus Christ. I turn around again, annoyed.

Baldy has disappeared, finally, so I resume my people-watching. Ice Ice Baby is rocking the entire bar and the dance floor is one big, cohesive seizure. Things are starting to get a little blurry.

The entertainment is now up on the bar, and all eyes are on the two lovelies who get up there every night and proceed to reveal their latest lingerie. Tonight it’s red lace panties under very short dresses. This is what attracts the sleazy assholes who hit on me. I wonder why I degrade myself by even coming here.

“There you are!” This man, dressed all in white with his shirt unbuttoned to the navel and a small gold medallion resting on a tuft of chest hair, says to me with a broad smile. I glance around me. He can’t be talking to me.

“Ven…..conmigo!” He grabs me by the arm, confirming my worst fears. He’s certainly very sure of himself, and I’m suddenly worried about what’s coming. Lambada is playing, of all things. For the love of God, why?

He pulls me tightly to him and begins to move. I’ve never been good at dancing with a partner. My body doesn’t understand someone else leading. It can’t get much worse.  We’re moving so fast it’s making me dizzy and I’m just too weak to get away. Now this is funny. I’m so drunk that I can’t help but laugh at this ridiculous predicament I’m in and that I look like a complete fool. I am laughing so hard I can’t even dance anymore, his body and his arms pulling me along like a giant rag doll. Might as well go with the flow, as Roxy always says. Am I really doing the Lambada?

He eventually gives up on me, bless his little Latin soul, because he thanks me and kisses my cheek like a true gentleman. Still, I try to lean away from his kiss, but I almost lose my balance. Someone’s hand presses against my back. Lambada King moves on to his next victim and I’m suddenly alone. With no drink. And no Roxy.

I start to make my way back to the bar to buy another Long Island Iced Tea. “Hey beautiful!” I hear someone say. I don’t bother to look. Besides, if I turn my head around too fast I’ll get dizzier and fall down. No, really, it’s happened before.

Dancing people are bumping into me but I’m numb and just allow myself to be propelled by the crowd. I wonder where the hell Roxy has gotten to. Probably in a dark corner upstairs with Pony Tail. I hope she doesn’t leave without me. Not that she’s ever done that, but alcohol can really mess with your sense of security in a public place surrounded by strangers when you can’t find your friends.

Fresh drink in hand, I’m about to start searching for the two of them when I see him again, the guy who smiled at me from the other side of the bar what seems like hours ago. He’s seen me too. He’s smiling shyly at me, so I smile back and take a long sip of my drink. It’s going down like water now. He makes his way over to me. God, he’s hot! I take a deep breath.

He’s from Brazil, and now living in New York. He’s asking me questions and suddenly leans into my neck. He says he likes my perfume and leans in again, this time brushing my neck with his lips. Holy wow! That was forward. My stomach flips over.

“So… are…?” What did he say? I can’t hear him over the music. I just smile and bask in the warmth of his proximity and attention.

And then all of sudden Roxy appears, screaming in my ear something about a song and, “we have to dance!” She pulls me along, shoving her way up onto a bench and dragging me with her. I try to protest, but there’s no stopping her and she can’t hear me anyway. I’ve never seen her dance this way before. I down what’s left of my drink that didn’t spill on the way to the bench and start dancing. I’m laughing but have no idea why or what’s so funny.

“What battery are you on?” I hear someone shout at us. Roxy is trying to tell me, as we’re dancing, how she kissed Pony Tail and he wanted to take her home but she wasn’t ready to leave yet so she gave him her number. I don’t know why they bother. They never call anyway.

I start to tell her about Marco when I realize he’s gone. I scan the crowd and see him standing nearby, talking to some girl with boobs spilling out over her top, and he’s leaning into her neck. I can’t believe it. What an ass!

Some guido grabs me by the waist and is dancing behind me. I make a drunken attempt to unwrench his hands from me but he seems determined to hold on. “Get your hands off me!” Works like magic.

Roxy has been seized by his friend and, laughing, she performs some bizarre dance on his leg. What the hell is she doing? The two guys offer us a ride home and Roxy starts to follow them but I say no. I may be drunk but I’m not stupid.

We grab a cab from the line of cabs waiting outside, and head home.


Creative writing. Original piece written in Spring 1992. Any similarity or resemblance to persons, real or imagined, is not intentional and solely for entertainment purposes.


Clubs Shatter Peace of Gramercy Park

Minute By Minute, Hour By Hour

While the world at large is fist-fighting over toilet paper and going to the store wearing garbage bags over their heads with the eyes cut out …

Veruca was pissed as all get-out that a) I wouldn’t let her go to bestie’s Quinciñera practice, and b) I kept her home from school on Friday.  The Quinciñera is a HUGE event with several costume changes and a choreographed dance with her friends that they are practicing weekly with a dance instructor. According to V, the girls will also have “outfits” they will wear for the routine itself. This is an event not unlike the planning of a wedding.

V insisted bestie will “cut” her from the dance. She would rather contract a deadly respiratory virus than not be able to dance at the Quinciñera. She doesn’t even care if it’s with half a lung.

Friday afternoon she made a rabid phone call to me over missing school and the handouts the teachers distributed for the weeks they’ll be out. I told her to email her teachers and remarked that I know she wasn’t the only one out of school today. She was, she hissed, since all of her friends went to school today and she missed her computer science test – a class, mind you, she dismissed just 3 days ago as one where they “do nothing every day.”

Her school announced Thursday night, shortly after I said she’s not attending Q practice, it was closing for two weeks as of Monday. So I decided she’s not going to school Friday. Softball practice has also been cancelled until April, which also pissed her off because it’s all just “stupid.”

Meanwhile back in college-land…Todd’s college closed Wednesday until the month’s end though he’s working from home every day and fielding apocalypse-type emails from faculty and staff… and Opac finally got the word around 9 pm Thursday night that students should pack up all their belongings and go home by Sunday. They will finish the semester online. He was packed up and home roughly 3 hours later.

O’s friends were “excited” that he was home and he wanted to have them over Friday night. I said to Todd in the morning before I left for work and I quote, “I cannot stress enough how important it is to limit face-to-face contact and/or have any unnecessary contact right now with anyone who doesn’t live in the same house.” Apparently there was a miscommunication and suddenly Opac had friends pulling into the driveway after we “thought” there would only be three coming over. He ended up rounding everyone up and they all left. Not exactly the outcome I wanted, but better than a bunch of young men shouting over the pool table all night and spreading disease on every surface in the basement.

I woke up Friday morning at 6, the warm knowledge that my kids and my husband were all home in their beds and the irony that it would be me who was going to the job in a healthcare facility, and me who has the best shot at bringing this virus home. I listened to CNN on my way to work, which I haven’t done for weeks for various reasons. And, as I parked my car, I knew why. My anxiety was climbing and I had a full day ahead to try to NOT focus on the elephant in the room. I’m not a particularly assertive person, but this virus has motivated the zero tolerance in me. “It’s just allergies” does not exempt you from wearing a mask. Sorry, not sorry. Seriously, why do people argue?

For what it’s worth, we are getting daily (at the very least) updates on COVID-19. Masks are being kept at the front desk and are handed out to patients/parents/guardians who have a cough. The days of dad wearing a mask in solidarity with his coughing child are currently over. No cough – no mask. We are getting calls daily about the virus, and parents who are beginning to cancel well visits. (V had one scheduled this week that I just cancelled.)

The hospital is limiting visitors to two healthy parents only (no family or siblings) and I believe that is to be the norm going forward in ambulatory settings as well. Except, how to explain to families that they cannot bring siblings to appointments? We are asking the respiratory and exposure questions on the phone now. However, please note that we know what you know. We do not have any inside knowledge.

Todd and I went grocery shopping Wednesday after V left for school – roughly 7:30 a.m. – and there were few people there. There was one multi-pack of disinfectant wipes and it landed in my cart, which I quickly covered with other items – hearing tales of fist fights over Chlorox wipes, I had no intention of getting a black eye for the sake of clean doorknobs. I also contributed to the Great Toilet Paper Famine of 2020 and picked up a 12-pack of Scott tissue. All the plusher TPs were already gone. And forget hand sanitizer.

We returned yesterday because our previous $300 shopping trip did not take into account O’s permanent return to the household. This woman, who already had 3 gallons of milk in her cart, kept backing up as she bent over to peer into the milk cases until she had completely cut Todd off.  And then had the audacity to be annoyed and snarky with him. Really?  REALLY?! I wanted to slap a bitch, but Todd steered me away and reminded me that people are under stress. A little common courtesy people! We’re all in this together – a smile and a little kindness goes a long way.

It’s Sunday. I’ve been writing this since Friday with numerous edits and interruptions. V is staying with her dad until Wednesday, while I work the next two days. She has calmed down since Friday, enjoying the peacefulness there without “O and his loud friends.” Todd has gotten a lot done, both with work and household/car stuff, and driving me nuts with frequent updates from the Johns Hopkins’ map of up-to-the-minute stats on coronavirus cases. He’s currently building Legos on the dining room table.

Neph was here yesterday and I can hardly believe the next part of this sentence…Opac helped him change the oil in his car. I made ham and cheese sliders and a double batch of cookies, dragged out the old Lego boxes, and drank tequila until I fell asleep. Opac took off with a friend later and didn’t come home until this morning and now I have to have another pain in the ass conversation with him about unnecessary social contact and the risks to the old folks and his Type 1 sister.

Stay safe ya’ll.

What F^ckery Is This?

By all appearances, I’ve left Facebook indefinitely. I need a break from the fuckery. However, just like… you can run but you can’t hide or,… no matter where you go, you take yourself with you or… not my monkeys, not my circus… sometimes the fuckery finds you anyway.

I may or may not have gone to an arts festival and sat behind a long-haired young man who smelled like he needed a shower. It may or may not been so bad that I may or may not have considered moving seats, except that it would have drawn attention to myself. I may or may not have wanted to be, or was, slightly intentionally rude to my husband’s former assistant at this event. I may or may not have not recognized another colleague who attended the same event until we started talking and I may or may not have felt like an asshole about that (though I may or may not have covered well and he may or may not have noticed).

I may or may not have been working extra hours at work again, happily, in spite of the new girl who may or may not have finally reached the summit of Mount Clusterfuck with her menagerie of personal problems which may or may not have included a sick child or two, a husband with a bad knee, and failure to complete a full work week even once in three months. I may or may not have made a joke or two at work about leaving early because Todd’s hip was hurting, or I needed a milkshake from McDonald’s. (We may or may not get a LOT of hilarious mileage out of this latest development at work.)

We may or may not have had friends over on Oscar night, when V may or may not have been sick and staying overnight with her dad, who played pool Very Loudly and with multiple exclamations of “mother-f^cker.” I may or may not have grown weary of my line, which was – “f^cker,” every time the other person said, “mother!” (I may or may not have felt gypped that I didn’t get to say “mother” too.) And it may or may not have gotten old fast. Todd may or may not have been shocked at my sudden lack of enthusiasm over the work “f^uck.”

We may or may not have had friends over the following weekend for dinner and games. I may or may not have actually had all the food I was preparing, ready before the guests arrived for the first time. One of our guests may or may not have expressed rather emphatically that she DOES NOT like another guest who might be stopping by. That other guest may or may not have come anyway.

We may or may not have been shocked when another guest walked through the front door with the woman who may or may not have been the reason he was arrested for attempted murder and who may or may not be still wearing an ankle bracelet issued by the state of Maryland. We may or may not have pretended we didn’t notice any of this. I may or may not be able to even make this shit up.

Jon may or may not have brought his Cards Against Humanity and some of us may or may not have played without a conscience. I may or may not have laughed my ass off. There may or may not have been fresh margaritas.

I may or may not have practiced some self-care recently, such as blood tests and follow up on urology and a thyroid scan, all of which may or may not relieved my concerns. I may or may not have made a new friend at the Clinique counter at Macy’s between appointments, before I might have gone to my first massage in 8 years.

I may or may not be suffering from what appears to be chronic back pain that has amped up its efforts in recent weeks. I may or may not know the cause, or where to start. I may or may not have seen a pain doctor, who may or may not have wasted two hours of my time for 15 minutes of hers and may or may not have had anything helpful to offer.

V may or may not be practicing a dance routine for her best friend’s Quincenera. We may or may not have gotten lost on our way to the first practice that turned out to be at a house I pass twice a week on my way to PA.

An ex-husband, or two, may or may not have bought his new fiancé a $6,000 diamond ring, or bought a half-million-dollar home to go with his $60,000 jacked up pickup truck while claiming not to be able to pay adequate child support. It may or may not end well for one of the many of us who may or may not have recently learned this information.

The world at large may or may not be going to hell in a Coronavirus handbasket, or a Cheeto-colored one, depending on which side of the fence you are or are not tweeting on. And I may or may not be considering a VERY edited, and unapologetic, return to social media.

Stay tuned.

*Disclaimer: Any resemblance to any person, real or imagined, may or may not be intentional.

**Disclaimer: Posts that appear on Facebook are shared from this page and not on Facebook. Any post appearing therein does not indicate a return to such.


Bad Boy Musings


Oh my God. I need to never, not ever, drink a 20-oz bottle of Dr. Pepper seven hours before bedtime. Lying in bed for going on three hours, listening to my heart beating in my chest, the weighted blanket worthless, and trying not to keep checking the time. The corner of my bedsheet and the mattress pad have pulled off, again, and I tried to ignore that too, but it was bunching up under my pillow and so I laid there thinking about how to fix that without waking Todd.

Instead, I pulled out my iPad and returned to my latest obsession on Netflix. Ha. Excellent and perhaps not-so-accidental choice of words for You. Veruca suggested it a few nights ago and we started watching it together, in spite of the mature rating, and later abandoned it because there was just waaaay too much material of a suggestive nature (that’s putting it mildly). However, momma returned to it on her day off whilst attending to household duties and now I can’t stop.

It’s riveting and soapy, the writing is sharp and yet there are times when it’s just ridiculous how the story plays out. I think Penn Badgley, the lead, is outstanding. The style of the storytelling, without giving too much away, is mostly in present tense – but there are flashbacks for the main character and then there are his voiceover monologues. It’s those inside thoughts that really drive the story in so many ways.

I think Penn Badgley outdoes himself. He fully encompasses his character’s persona – his voice, his facial expressions, the sounds of a man in the throes of orgasm (see? Waaaay too much for a 14-year-0ld) – in such a way that it’s easy to forget he’s an actor playing a part.

V told me her friend has watched nearly all of it, and my first reaction is – she’s too young, she doesn’t know what she’s seeing, how does she feel about this character?? WHY??? But see, I already know the answer.

Penn Badgely, in an interview I read somewhere and quickly forgot, was stated as admonishing fans on Twitter for lusting after this psycho-sociopath. His – and his character’s – good looks are completely overshadowing the Big Red Flags of a man with serious boundary issues and a casual disregard for human life. The female viewership is not discouraged.

What does this say about women – about people – today? And it makes me wonder what a 14-year-old girl is thinking when she’s watching the shit show that is Joe/Will. Does she find him “pretty,” as she once referred to a boy IRL? Does she fantasize about meeting him, dating him, having him love her like that?

And that’s where it gets scary. When did we learn to glorify bad boys? How do we teach our girls how to identify “bad”?

The boy with the leather motorcycle jacket, the pierced ear, the long hair, quiet and seething below the surface… is he sexy or someone to be careful of? Why do you like him? What is so tantalizing about him, the idea of him – what does bad mean?

How do you not end in up in love with guys who ignore you until they want you, punch holes in walls near your head, cigarettes in one hand and a coke straw in the other? Guys with wandering eyes and other girls too, guys who need your money, or never call back.

At some point in your young life, you decided that “bad boys” were desirable. Which movie was that? That the troubled, volatile, no-rules boy was IT. How many of them were there?

Was the boy in leather who drives a fast car really as bad you made him to be? Or did you just want him to be bad? What did it take to make him bad? How far did he have to go to qualify?

How many good guys did you burn on the road to badness? How much badness did you really see? Did you find out that the bad boy wasn’t all that bad, or that he was, in fact, worse than you ever imagined? How many bruises did you inflict, or did he inflict on you – your body, your psyche, your soul?

How many decades will it take to undo the damage you opened the door for and invited in, all because bad boys are soooo good? Once you open that door, it’s not so easy to close. The weight of the room inside is full and the door no longer closes.

When you met him, did he give you all of his attention or did he make you feel like he could be somewhere, anywhere, else? Hello! Over here! Did he stand a little too close to you? Did you like that – the discomfort in his proximity to you – while his eyes bore holes through you? Did it make your stomach dip like a free fall?

Did you relish the moment you made him jealous of someone else? Did you do it because you wanted the reaction? Did you want to see him angry? Angry with you? Did you want to fight with him, because the fire it sparks is exhilarating, makes you feel alive, because you believe that you need the turbulence?

Is it your own desire to be bad that drives your desire to capture it in someone else? Why is being bad so damn good? What are the rewards? What are the consequences?

Life As It Becomes More

The holidays when you’re 50 are much different than the holidays when you’re, let’s say, 30. I’ve had years in between where my enthusiasm ebbed and flowed. This year I was eager to get the Christmas tree and Veruca was equally excited. The two of us drove to the tree farm and there were about a half dozen families toting dwarf trees to their cars and the pre-cut Frasers were, well, NONE. Anyway, a google search revealed another tree farm in our area I’d never even heard of and let me tell you right now – the tree I reluctantly chose (reluctantly because the branches were upright and tightly hugging the trunk) was the Most Beautiful Tree I’ve had in years.

Anyway, my 50-year-old enthusiasm was limited to the Christmas tree and the stairwell I decorate with garland and baubles every year. The artificial tree we put up in the rec room never made it out of the box. The Christmas Village ceramic houses never made it out either. We didn’t decorate the outside of the house. I’m not sorry. I just didn’t have it to give.

There’s an old quote: “just don’t have it to give.” Came from a Gemini male I once shared a home with in my 20s, who was full of prolific bullshit like statements about me being “uptight.” I learned to cringe when these statements flowed from his or, even years later, others’ lips. But today, older and wiser, I realize that the former statement is a confession moored in self-awareness that is more positive than negative.

I’m trying to avoid the inevitable cliché that comes when one pontificates about life and becoming conscious of what really matters when it happens at the turn of a new year. That it’s also a new decade does not have an elevated significance in my particular case. Unless we’re talking about my new decade.

Anyway. My friend lost her dad in December. The memorial service was earlier this month and I made the hour-and-twenty-minute drive to honor him and support her. Our families have an interesting history.

We were both born and raised in the same town. Like I think it is with most folks, the town is one which is spoken of with both reverence and disdain, often in the same breath. Our town is, uh, town. The town isn’t exactly small, but so many people know each other in a seemingly impossible way that it’s almost incestuous. (Okay not really.)

So… my mom worked with T’s grandmother before I was born and for a couple of years after. My mom somehow always knew T’s parents too. My dad and former stepmother were friends with T’s aunt and uncle (her dad’s brother) – which is where it gets really weird because I remember a time when they took me with them to the aunt and uncle’s home and there were other kids there that I played with. It wasn’t until many years later, when two of those kids (T and her brother, now adults) were working at my mom’s restaurant, that I realized that we had met so many years before. (Do I need a diagram?)

In another strange twist, thanks to Facebook, I noticed that T was friends with someone I went to high school with. T didn’t attend the same school as us, and she is also five years my junior. When I finally remembered to ask the friend how she knew T, it turns out her mother used to work for T’s father.

Anyway, back to the memorial service. Many, many people came. Mom met me there. We stood in the line to see the family, which was really long and moving like a backwards river. Seriously. I found my patience waning fast as folks were stepping out of line to greet and hug others and then the line would come to a standstill until they stepped back into the line. And there’d be this huge gap between people that ramped my anxiety to blast-off.

This well-dressed little old lady with impeccable hair and makeup in front of me stopped moving altogether as she stood staring at her husband who had left the line to chat with old buddies from somewhere. I pondered the possibility that he was deliberately ignoring her gaze. And then was struck with the urge to scream, move the fucking line! But thankfully I’m not yet old enough to pull off shit like this in public, so I said it in my head.

The line went on like this for about 25 minutes and I was beginning to wonder if the services would start on time. (Spoiler alert: they didn’t.) At one point when I thought I’d hit the peak of my anxiety and intolerance, T and I made eye contact and for a brief moment I was sure I felt her. There’s something between us that can be read as instant understanding sometimes. If I ever had a sister, she’d be it. Not because we might be alike, but because in many ways we’re not and there’s this innate understanding that cannot be explained. There are things over the years we have shared with each other that with others might be a, “huh?” that for us is, “haha, YES.” And she is no nonsense. You better buckle up because she will tell you straight up Truth.

So we moved through the line and sat down, which is when my entertainment really begins. The older folks with the bouffant hairdos and the outfits and the jewelry. Familiar faces too (it’s our town, after all). There was this one man who clearly was either wearing a hairpiece or using Grecian formula, with a pencil-thin mustache, and was a dead ringer for one of my family members.

The photos on the monitor could easily have been photos of my own family … the clothes, the hairstyles, the furniture, the backgrounds. There was a picture of T’s dad as a boy on a pony. We have an identical picture of my uncle. It’s all this weird six-degrees-of-separation that isn’t limited to just our town, and it’s so very cool.

I don’t know how all this segues into my thoughts about life and where it’s going and what matters. I suppose funerals do that. T’s brother spoke eloquently of time spent with his father and the value of memories…. Though he didn’t say it quite this way, that we have an obligation to impact our children with memories the way our parents did for us.

For the first time I didn’t cry at a funeral. I don’t know if it’s because there wasn’t a profound sadness permeating the room or whether I drew my cues from T, or whether there was larger, deeper impact poking at me. I left there feeling like I needed time to process and reflect on the feelings circling like birds overhead.

Much of my twenties was chaos. Not in the literal way… just chaotic movement from place to place, person to person, living in the moment (sometimes self-destructive) in anticipation of “what’s next.” Never quite sure of myself while being fully myself and lacking the awareness to understand why I did what I did and how not to do certain things again.

The thirties introduced a long period of change and more chaos which turned out to be more destructive even than that of my twenties. The juxtaposition of becoming a parent and loving something more than my own life while simultaneously fighting for my identity. It was a period of survival. I’d forgotten that I had choices. That I’d always had them and that somehow I’d relinquished them to someone else, who had no business deciding for me.

The forties: a rebirth. A remembrance of me. The final hitting of a wall; a wall I couldn’t climb or go around. The revelation that the only choice I had was in fact no choice at all. I had to move forward and away from toxicity and vicious words because the only thing I could change was how I chose to live. And look where it got me!

The fifties have just begun. I embraced that birthday with the spirit I have always had. I’ve been living in joy and peace and contentment for the last 9 years. I couldn’t ask for anything more. Except for less debt and a swimming pool.

Still, there’s more. I want to live in the moment, every one, but this time with the awareness and connection I didn’t have 25 years ago. Less distracted. More tuned in. And I knew this before I googled what it meant to dream of thousands of cats running around my house.




To be continued….

Drinking and Dreams

I woke up this morning from a series of bizarre dreams I’ll attribute to the chemical interaction between my medication and Goose Island IPA. About a month ago, I stopped drinking (mostly) and returned to healthier lifestyle habits. Spoiler: alcohol makes you gain weight and look puffy and inflames the joints. When I stop drinking, my weight drops off. It’s a slow, steady process, but I notice it most in my face. (And now everyone knows how to tell I’m drinking again.)

Anyway. Last night I went along to bowling with Todd for the first time in weeks. There are times I just don’t want to stand around in unforgiving lights surrounded by MAGAs drinking Coors Light and the sound of a thousand pins roaring like a 747 between my ears. The problem with going to bowling is the subsequent boredom, which leads to meme-sharing (highly entertaining but always short-lived), and boredom as they say sometimes leads to bad decisions. Like drinking.

The old crowd at the former, now-a-Sheetz bowling alley was a fun crowd. One friend would lead the rounds of shots (again, bad decisions) and there was generally an air of middle-aged shenanigans juxtaposed with the retirees’ been-there-done-that sober laughter and the younger crowd’s drama (always fun to watch, from a distance). It was fun (I miss you girls).

This new crowd is very different, a lot more mellow. No more loud, outspoken girlfriend with the potty mouth and my dirty sense of humor.  No more girlfriend ordering shots like we’re reliving school days. The bartender here is great – she knows us by name, which I realize sounds bad but it’s a much smaller place and we often go into the bar after bowling for snacks and such.

Ed and I accidentally invented what we thought was a new shot (we googled the ingredients once, it actually does exist), because she didn’t have all the liquors to make a true B52 so we improvised. The result was supposed to be a combination of Kahlua, Bailey’s, and Amaretto but as Tonya was mixing she was talking to us and I watched with horror as she poured Southern Comfort into it and I didn’t have the heart to what the fuck are you DOING Tonya! stop her mid-pour. But it was actually good. I forget what we named it but she still calls it “the Tonya” and, since it was her mix-up, we’ll let her have it.

Anyway. After driving Veruca to her dad’s and listening to her bitch about the ride up on the back roads and wanting to puke and “never doing it again”… all I could think about was the beer I was going to have once I got back to the bowling alley. That meme about being the reason your mom drinks is no joke. And then one turned into two. And then number three seemed necessary for accompanying the cheese fries the guys ordered. (See? BAD decisions.)

The point is, I haven’t been drinking. Last Saturday we had friends over for dinner. I knew I was going to enjoy a little wine since we were entertaining. They brought wine and beer… the boys drank beer and she and I had wine. I tasted the Russian red that her son had brought home from Estonia. Semi-sweet and, while I’m not a fan of varietals that are anything less than cork-dry, this was really, really different. Cherries! It actually went well with the NY strip and crab cakes we made. However, one glass was all I could do. So we opened another red, and Todd switched to wine too so I wasn’t the only one drinking it. And then Todd poured shots of bourbon crème liquor all around to toast our friend’s 101-year-old grandmother who had literally just passed while we were having dinner.

And then we opened another bottle of wine. Oh God – I’d been down that road before and it did NOT end well. But oh no, another friend came over and suddenly I was like, hey guys! I have something you all NEED to try. I was gifted with a bottle of Grand Marnier Quintessence for Christmas and it is not for sharing. I poured two ounces in a snifter and Todd, for comparison, poured a second glass of the much cheaper Grand Marnier Cuvee Louis-Alexandre he got me for Christmas.

Everything was going well. Our friends left for a long drive home and the latecomer friend stayed to discuss work drama with Todd and I was feeling like unconscious was coming soon. At this point Opac was back from his night out and wanted to talk about serious matters which at this point was probably not the best idea but I persevered and poured him a Jack and Coke (see Bad Mom), and myself a big glass of water, and sat down at the dining room table with him. We had a great talk, much of which I don’t remember, but I know the gist and ultimately what the problems are and a week later I’m still concerned about him.

Sunday morning was so NOT a good morning for me. As a matter of fact, neither was Sunday afternoon. When I wake up like that, I always yell at myself for being so stupid and knowing better and don’t-ever-do-that-again, and then I tell myself that it feels bad now but I’ll be feeling 80% better by 4:00. It’s a promise to myself that I’m really praying isn’t a lie.

I made myself 8 potatoes-worth of home fries and a big-ass glass of Dr. Pepper and eventually found my way back to sleep for a few hours; which is absolutely necessary with hangovers that feature an apocalyptic headache since the last thing I can do when I first wake up is sleep and I cannot close my eyes because it feels like I’m back on the New York subway. A dear friend always used the phrase, “God punishes,” and now I know the full and true meaning of that statement.

So back to this weekend. It wasn’t terrible. After all, three beers with food is not going to be terrible. But Holy Fuck. The dreams. I dreamed I was back in school and late for class, which Opac was also in, and I lived in a dorm room with 3 other girls who turned out to be very subtly snarky. That one didn’t last long.

The next one was a casual tribute to this recurrent dream about cats. I dream about our home being infested – yes, I said infested – with dozens and dozens of cats. More on that, maybe another time. Or not. But anyway, in this dream there were dozens of cats, just lying around on our back porch and lawn. And some of them had collars on, so clearly they weren’t feral cats like the ones featured in previous dreams. And then there were these two dogs that weren’t ours, snuggled up with the cats, also with collars and tags. One had a tag that said he belonged to a very old friend of mine and I was trying to figure out what the hell the dog is doing here since my friend lives in another state. (And I woke up wondering why HE was in my dream until I remembered that sometimes life crosses over into dreams and earlier that day I’d been discussing the Grateful Dead with a coworker and how I’d never gotten to see them, but could have, with him, except that I didn’t do drugs and was intimidated by what I perceived was some drugged-out mob.)

Meanwhile, Todd was in this dream and again he’s insisting these cats need to go and I’m all like – I just want the mother and baby over there because they’re so small and sweet. And we still don’t have a solution for all these cats.

I googled cats in dreams and here’s what I found: “Dreaming of thousands of cats running around in a house indicates a lack of direction in your life. There is too much going on in your life that you are losing sight of what’s important.” **

Well if that doesn’t say it all…


** http://www.dreammoods.com