Just for Now.

I want to wear my hair in funny little sprouts with ribbons that I change daily. I want to shed my daily uniform of black skirts and jackets to don brightly colored skirts (that I make) with patterns inspired by centuries-old South American and African cultures. I want to toss my heels and slip on fun flip flops in the spring/summer/fall ... and chunky clogs and Mary Jane's in the winter--and just saunter through my day. I want to travel the south and southwest in a camper with my hubby, with both of us acting like earthy-crunchy types stuck in 40-something bodies ... selling snow cones and jewelry at county fairs. I want to wake up on a beautiful day like this and just sit, with a cup of Earl Grey and just inhale, feeling the wind on my eyelashes and watching the clouds tumble over each other--because they have somewhere to go, but I don't.

I want to sit with K on the patio of Chipotle or Panera and listen to him talk about all the things he is passionate about, in great detail--like the names of all the pieces of equipment on a firetruck and their individual purposes--just because I love to watch his face and see the passion that I pray doesn't become impaired with time and routine.

I want to sit on the back step with Petey on my lap--because he thinks, despite his chunky, sausage-like physique, that he is a small lapdog. And because, for some odd reason, he loves me despite the fact that I never seem to have enough time or energy to walk him or pet him. Then I want to rub Topsy's belly, despite the fact that she's a fat cat and is torn between trusting me and just enjoying it. Then I want to run my index finger along the bunny's nose back between his ears because this makes him melt into a drowsy sleep and makes me smile just because.

Then I want to lie down in my bed with too many feather pillows and a Country Living or Mary Jane's Farm magazine or some read that inspires me, close my eyes while looking at the Divine Mercy image of JC on my lampshade, thinking "Thank you for all of this--and more."

Freaky (Sneaky) Pete

Poor Pete. It's all the refrigerator's fault. It decided to retire itself this past weekend, after 30 some years of service (not all to us). Of course, we didn't realize it was that old, nor that it was ready to pass into that permanent deep freeze zone. Still, it sent us into a slight monetary panic. ("How the heck are we going to afford a new fridge?")? I'm violently opposed to opening more credit lines (especially those that come with the complimentary 24.9 percent interest rate). We scrambled, using some bill money (defer, defer, defer) ... and Pete's grooming money. So, he got a "poor dog's" cut, courtesy of yours truly. (And no, I did not cut his ear off --he was in ornery mode in this photo, getting ready to run from me. He has a fear of cameras, as well as scissors. Or maybe he was just about done with tolerating my antics for the day.)

Since his sheep-like fur won't take the cutter/trimmer thing, we spent a long afternoon with the scissors on the back porch. Envision a cloud of little white curls cycloning around the patio. Envision Sneaky Pete, leaning east as I have him pinched between my legs ... snipping away. Interestingly, he's even less cooperative while on his flipside. ("Whoa ... get those things away from there!," I could imagine he was thinking as I played Edward Scissorshand.) During the two times he managed to escape, we played a game of "cat and mouse" on the patio until I tired and resorted to bribes (pretzels).

The end result is ... well ... let's just say he won't be winning any contests nor attracting any girlfriends anytime soon. (Except for Topsy kitty. She loves him. Okay--she loves everyone.) But at least his hair is shorter and he's clean (complimentary bath with trim service). I prefer to think of his cut as a work in progress. You see, I'm not finished yet. There's just a couple more spots ...

The Amazing Adventures of Sneaky Pete

He's a poodle. He's a sheep (especially right now). He's a Mama's Boy. He's a vacuum cleaner. Sneaky Pete lives in my kitchen, for the most part. He likes his boundaries--unless there is food or a leash calling his name.

He started as a birthday present for K about 3 years ago. You know the drill ..."But Mom, if we could just get a dog, I'D DO EVERYTHING! I'd feed him and take him for walks. I'd give him baths and clean up after him ..." That lasted about two weeks. That's when Pete became a Mama's Boy. It was solidified when, practicing that circus-theory that poodles can be taught to dance, I confirmed it. So, yes, now we have a performing act whereby Pete dances on his back tippy toes, nose in the air, every time I sing my made-up lyrics (featuring his name) to the tune of "Meet Me in St. Louis." (Okay, my embarrassing secret is now out.)

Now, this is going to cause some eyes to roll but, poodles really are smart dogs. (I know. I told you.) Petey tends to be ... well ... calculating. It happens most often like this: He's wandering around the kitchen, which is adjacent to our dining room (where the cat's food dish is). T or I will be in the kitchen doing dishes or something--then we leave to go out on the patio or the porch. Pete watches us leave (from his post on the threshold between the kitchen and dining room). Then he dashes into the dining room, scarfs a mouthful of that ever-better-tasting-than-dogfood-cat-chow and runs back into the kitchen to assume the same position he was in when we left the kitchen. (Chewing quickly.) If we happen to catch him in the act, he simply chomps all the way back to his crate and puts himself in "time out" while savoring the last morsels of liver-flavored-kitty-food.

He also has the sit-and-shake (at the same time) thing down well ... when I pull out the bag of goldfish crackers. He's a big Cheerio fan, too. And carrots (but they make him gag). In fact, there isn't much of anything he'll shy away from sampling. Of course, the vet noted that he's about 5 lbs overweight. Hmmm. Wonder why.

Wish U Were Here

"If you'll be my bodyguard ..." Paul Simon's music fades in and out over the sound of kids splashing in the pool. The piped-in music (coming from rock-looking landscape speakers) is stereo surrounding me as I float in the pool on my back looking up at the palm treas. Oops. I meant to type trees, but I'm in vacation-mind mode where thinking about anything more than lunch or when to apply my next spray of sunscreen is an effort. What day is this?

I'm watching the clouds float by above me, sounds muffled because my ears are below the water. I wonder how long a human could stay like this.

The view from my beach chair is great too. A peaceful seascape full of every color in the aqua spectrum running into the peaches, apricots and golds. I think this is one of the things I miss most about those long winter months up north ... these Florida colors.

We girls spend the day here, poolside. The boys are watching movies and playing Xbox in the condo. I'm engrossed in Kelly Corrigan's The Middle Place, partly because a new writer friend told me recently that my writing style reminds me of Kelly's (wow--what a compliment!) but mostly because Kelly's story makes me feel like I'm listening to a friend.

Later in the day, we go out to a local Italian place where the waitress scrunches her face at our high-maintenance Midwest requests for things "on the side" (like she's trying to make out another language) and pronounces Minestrone soup as "minn-a-strone." Note to self: look up the authentic pronunciation. Then we go shopping to the outlet mall where everyone comes away happy. Starbucks for dessert. Practically perfect day.

As Shangra-La-like as this sounds, I think the boys have had enough and are missing the familiarities of home. I'm missing T. It's wierd to be here without him, but the new grandbaby did arrive Monday (healthy and strong) and he was able to hold her last night which probably made staying home worth it. I miss Petey-the-poodle (and he misses me, according to Tom.) I hear Pete is spending his days moping in his cage. I also miss my bed. I don't miss the bills or dealing with the other bad news that rolls into our lives, but even here I can't escape it. T tells me about a niece that's in trouble. I resolve to resume my prayers--no excuse to have vacationed from that.