The blog post that has nothing to do with babies.

(Our plastic child can sit on the floor keeping company with lighters, tequila, knives, credit cards, car keys, lasers, bleach, candy, pure sugar, razors, scissors, rock music with swear words, prescription meds, a hammer, dangerous reading material among other things and.....nothing. Plastic children are safe, predictable, if not a little boring, and will never cause any trouble. Plus I can decoupage her if I get the urge.)

Hey I'm all for not having the human race dying out but....holy moly there's a lotta babies popping up..er..out...around the blog world lately.
I think it's actually some sort of mini baby boom and we should all satisfy our voyeuristic tendencies by counting backwards 9 months or so to see what was so baby making fantastic back then. I could be wrong but I am gonna guess that all the baby making madness occurred during that dry spell that happens between the seasons of good tv viewing.
That little window of time when one block of shows has their season finales and the next block of premieres doesn't start for 3 weeks. There's nothing on tv, sooooooo a whole new generation of little humans was created. I am secretly going to call all children conceived during this time period "Re-run-lings" in my head.
Do not get me wrong, kids are great (at a comfortable non birthed from me distance) and like I said some one needs to keep the human race going but I feel a little superior at times cause NAHHH NAHHHH aint gonna be me. I'll be sipping Margaritas with the only kids I need. Fuzzy four legged ones that can only sass back in "Meow" language. (Okie, now that was just bragging. And everyone knows the unspoken rule that you can't diss the *beauty and wonder* that is creating life nor can you extoll too much the benefits of forgoing the *beauty and wonder* of creating new life because it'll make all the new Mama's jealous.)
We are not going to have kids.
And there are not many things about that decision I could regret except maybe the mini sandwiches that baby mamas get at baby showers. You can't convince me there aren't a few women out there who got knocked up just for the wee tuna on whole wheat cut in to tiny triangles. Those sandwiches alone are what got me through many a relative's baby shower. Those tiny little minuscule bready delights stuffed with cheddar and ham are what lured to me to neighbor after neighbor's baby shower where we sat around with strangers playing weird games (and not Nintendo based ones) whilst waiting for the food to be unveiled. Those sandwiches alone are also what my Mother hauls out of her Mama torture bag of tricks and takes photos of at all the Canadian based baby showers I can't attend so I can see the sandwich nirvana I'm missing.

(evidence of torture by own Mother, plate after plate of beautiful teeny tiny sandwiches that I can't have)

She's no fool and we've got a good thing. I thrust plastic grandchildren in her face and she tortures me with miniscule food. It's a fair trade.
There's a lot of reasons FOR having kids. Someone to work the farm when you're old and grey..er..or keep you company in your golden years and love and affection etc. BUT in all fairness there's a lot of reasons NOT to.
I couldn't begin to list them all, and I am sure for every one I have, there's a Mama out there who needs no argument against any of my reasons other than the sweet and pure love that only a child can bring. I don't think one decision is really better than other EXCEPT one is better than the other for ME. :)

Reason number 382 why we are not having children.
The *pretend* child we have, aka the only grandchild the folks can expect from us, was given a lovely hair cut the other night. You see I was in the middle of creating the un-dead and realized I didn't have the right shade of blonde hair in my craft supplies. So I fetched our darling plastic daughter that we keep stored in the closet and only bring out at Christmas (reason number 291: storing your children in the closet is probably a no-no) and with hardly any hesitation hacked off a long hank of blonde hair...muah ahh ahh. If there's no rule about butchering your children's hair for making zombies then there ought to be.

Reason number 4587 not to have children. I've never been good at sharing. Seriously, the new Nintendo Wii game.....lets say I could even afford the new game..or the Wii system AFTER all the expense of creating a human being there's no way in hell I could sit idly by and let some one else beat the new Zelda game before me. That's not mean...that's honesty right there. Also, I'm pretty sure there's some Motherhood rule that says parents shouldn't devote 50 plus hours of gameplay to the new Zelda game if they have children...something about matches and cleaners and world domination...I dunno for sure I was only half listening to that parental lecture cause I was distracted by how many rupees I'd collected.

Reason number 784 not to have children. Schedules. Holy fricking Hannah it would seem the entire freaking universe lives by the clock..EXCEPT my sweetie and I. Our schedule slowly rotates around the clock, Slowly pushing further a little later every night, sleep a little later every day. We have no set pattern. Just when you think we are getting up at midnight we're actually getting up at 4 am, or 4 pm. I am thinking kids and a schedule like that don't mesh.... I have heard rumors about the youngins needing stuff like sunlight.....

Reason number 32, I hated school, or at least large chunks of it. I can't imagine creating a human and then sending them off to the very institution I so very much un-enjoyed...and as for home schooling..um, did I not mention the 50 plus hours of game play? Plus margaritas. How many margaritas do parents get? Pbbbt, suckkkkas, y'all work on long division, my hubby and I are gonna make brownies, eat half the pan and then do dangerous things with a lighter we can leave laying out in the open because our cats have no interest in playing with it....muahh ahh ahh.

(Dangerous things we can leave in the middle of the living room floor forever and always should we desire because we don't have children. I'm not saying it's the BEST perk of opting to go childless...but it's definitely one of the more interesting ones.)

Reason number 7, adults who said "Oh you'll change your mind some day" with that knowing smirk on their face as if they knew for damn sure a switch would go off when a woman hits 30 and she will wanna help increase the earth's population. It's almost worth it for that alone. Sort of an "in your face" rebellion, ha HA no grandkids for you!

Reason number 9876. The other day we stepped out on to the patio to stare at the lovely, artistic billows of smoke from the fire way off yonder at the military base. Of course we wanted to snap a photo and of course I ended up flailing my arms and smacking a 500 dollar camera out of my husband's hands to bounce off of the house and onto the patio floor........ I fear children. If I could manage to do that on accident to a tiny camera.....a full size kid? Yikes. I'm pretty sure they're worth more than 500 dollars....

Reason number 17, We don't need to make any kids. The friends and relatives are doing a fine job of it on their own. Producing such wonderful little persons that one could not even hope to compete. (But lets see em produce a pair of cats who can occasionally tolerate each other long enough to bump noses though! Now there's a feat!)

Reason number 865, Babies don't use litter boxes. So far as I know.

I fully realize the Universe is gonna punish me for even thinking up such a list by making me have 19 kids in my next life time. Most likely all of which I'll name variations on the theme of Mario and Zelda. It'll be little Links and Luigis running all over the place and I'll be bewildered why such names appealed to me. The Universe is just sneaky enough to do such a thing. In the mean time I'll baby my cats and make my OWN little sandwiches. It's not just Mamas-to-be who can cut a square into 4 triangles ya know.

Disclaimer: Children are wonderful. I am very happy for all the proud parents out there, but I am happy and proud of our un-parentage as well.
To each their own.

Ma poubelle

We have some kind of luck.
OR, as I prefer to think of it, we have some kind of strange guardian something or other floating about like a very specific skilled wish granter. Ask for a million dollars? Nothing doing. Ask for a piece of electronics to fix itself after being broken for several months, poof. Granted.
World peace? HA! It laughs in our faces. Have a mugger return a stolen wallet? Sure thing.
To clarify though, I have been reaping the benefits of said ghostly wish granter/protective spirit of odd and un-related things only through marriage. I certainly never had such luck. I really only get to stand under the umbrella of weird protection with my husband.
It's his eyeglasses who go missing in Maine and given up for loss only to be found, after miles of driving, hanging undamaged outside the car door. I don't mind that it's not personally my guardian object angel, marriage does have it's fringe benefits besides the hottie blue husband. :)
It's good to lead gently into one's chaotic thought process with illustrative descriptive mental images of a ghostly character hovering about our old printer. It's a good fake out for what's really on my mind.
Trash cans.
Again.
I either have a fetish, am very trash conscious or need to get out more and expand my horizons. A fourth and more creative option would be to start a whole new blog, Trash Talk, but I am fearful of the sort of readers one might draw near with a title like that.
The connection between a strange aura around our possessions and my trash cans is this. After several cans went missing, presumably stolen...one came back.
After more than a year one of our trash cans turned up at the bottom of our drive way and I am tickled pink, green and a light shade of iridescent blue.
The guardian has struck again.
The questions that bombarded my mind after seeing our lonely little bin we purchased from Lowes, sitting down by the mailboxes, almost left me speechless. Almost.
"What the..? Seriously? Look! LOOK! It's our bin! Is it? How..huh? I...er....."
These questions were just my brain's way of trying to process an almost impossible situation. Our stolen bin had come back. It did not have the look of a plastic trash can possessed by a sentient spirit so I assume the bin thieves returned it themselves. Unless....unless the guardian of inanimate objects has been working out and has managed to develop a few corporeal muscles and pushed the bin back all by it's invisible self. I am actually leaning really hard towards that possibility. I like to picture the expression on the bin thief's face when our can started hauling itself out of their bin thief hide away and began bumping it's way along the road towards home.
We stood that day. Staring at our long lost member of our trash sorting family. Warm afternoon sunshine played over it's dull grey brown features. It's shadow stretched across the road as if reaching for us.
"Is it really our bin?" We asked, not wanting to hope and have our hearts broken.
We looked around, peering into the bushes and neighbor's driveways for possible bin thieves with nefarious n'er do well intentions on their faces. We were alone. Me, my husband, the guardian of inanimate objects and our garbage can.
There was no mistaking it. It was OUR can.

(exhibit B, pull made from plastic handles off of boxes, how many other bins identical to ours would have an identical extra handle for long armed husbands to hold when pulling the bin up and down the steep driveway?)

It still sported the fashionable little pull we'd made from plastic handles off of some boxes. It was missing the lid, which we very well knew was in our garage, lonely and useless as the cruel bin thief didn't take it when it had taken the bin.
I marched over, ready to take my bin back to where it rightfully belonged. Thoughts of neighbors *accidentally* not noticing they'd taken a bin from the communal trash area, that in no way matched any of the other bins down there, had a special handle and kept it for over a year...accidentally....washed through my mind.
I stepped close, victory so close. Score one for justice....
"Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww."
I will save you a description but suffice it to say the....bin-napper....for lack of a better word, had apparently tossed a half can's worth of perishables in the bin for goodness how long and left it.
Perishables, no lid plus Southern California heat is a pretty nasty math equation.
I was tempted though...to retrieve what belonged to us, to clean up some one else's careless and disgusting mess just to return the bin to it's rightful place.
I stared hard at the can....and I sighed.
"I guess it's their bin now."
I was only sad for a moment, it actually seemed like pretty good instant karma. Leaving the mess where it was. As it turned out the garbage men didn't even touch the can, and who could blame them, I'm not sure they get hazard pay.
BUT...
I did get one teeny weeny extremely power packed moment of satisfaction from this whole peculiar bin experience.
I took the garbage can lid that belonged with the bin, and the very day we saw its return, placed it lovingly and a little sadly on the can. They might as well have the lid too.
Then...I cackled all the way up the driveway. Rubbing my palms together in a seriously evil genius sort of way. Imagining the mind trip that was gonna do to them, if they even noticed.
And they did.
Perhaps just a little bit of justice and a tiny sliver of shame. As later when we walked down to check the mail, still that same day, we saw the bin had been moved to the other side of the cans. As if to hide it from view.
They'd need much bigger bins to hide their shame though.
I like to wonder if that messed with their minds...knowing that we know....and yet didn't take the bin back? Ah well.
Maybe they're not jerks, maybe they're actually some forgetful old lady who accidentally took the wrong bin home after gathering her cans in the middle of the night and then maybe she lost track of it in a garage full of junk and cats and old lady belongings for over a year until finally she spied it through her dusty spectacles and declared "That's not mine, oh golly!" and promptly returned it.... Yeah, it was probably that.
I find most of life's annoyances go down smoother if I pretend they're perpetrated by forgetful old ladies.
In the mean time the bin remains, they apparently not claiming it and neither are we...unless I actually break down and reclaim what's rightfully mine and clean the heck out of that thing whilst half sloshed on rum. A person would have to be half sloshed, at the very least, on something before attempting such a chore.
Ah well.
But kudos to the guardian object angel, I am seriously impressed. I do not suppose many people can claim their garbage bin was stolen for a year and then returned...what a strange and oddly satisfying experience that is.

Bed-lam

Once upon a time I remarked casually to my husband that there were days I wished we could drag the mattress off of our bed, out to the living room where we could plunk it down in front of the fireplace.
And his eyebrow rose so steadily and so slowly, creeping higher and higher on his face that I began to worry. I was having some serious concerns that his eyebrow was going to detach itself and just run away all together. Which would be a shame as Alan has lovely eyebrows. But I am off of my point if not my rocker.
The boldly stated bombshell lay between us. Our mattress in the living room.
Before the word "Why" could so much as begin to pucker his lips in the slightest I rushed forward like a lawyer horse, launching outta the starting gate, racing to fill in the air between us with not just my words but excellent reasoning behind such a move.
"So we could sleep in front of the fire!! It would be like camping only lazier and we could watch tv at the same time!"
The eyebrow halted it's steady climb.
Alan's eyebrow is his barometer indicating his feelings on how crazy an idea is.
"It would be warm and cozy and instead of heating the bedroom we could stay out here where we already have it heated."
The eyebrow lowered.
"Well....." He said, chewing this idea over in his mind and I do believe I fell in love a little bit more.
That is the true litmus test of a soul mate. When you throw an idea out there, no matter how wacky, it's considered. If even for the briefest of moments.
Sure your idea to defect from all North American Countries and creating your own on some small island where we could live on rum and lobster for the rest of our days, whittling coconut shells and writing our National anthem might ultimately be dismissed. But for a half second, that precious half second when his mind leaps ahead with yours to that place that exists only in imagination, the place where he joins you in decorating your new country's flag and helps build a lovely 3 story hut out of bamboo and flamingo feathers, working in harmony, before reality slams itself against your dreams and hauls you back to the here and now....that half second....is amazing.
"I guess it would take up a lot of space....." He finally says. And I see him mentally measuring the living room floorspace. If I could pop inside his brain for a moment and peer out through his eyes I almost bet I'd see faint green lines laid over every bit of anything that could be measured in the living room. And next to each faintly glowing green line would be the measurements, guesstimates of course he's not a computer. And the units would be in feet but not standard's , rather his own size 11's.
I gaze with rapt attention and baited breath as his head swivels on his neck and I can see that he is envisioning our bed in the middle of the living room and I can see that he can see it wouldn't be half bad. I follow the invisible path his eyes trace, as he mentally pushes our King sized mattress around the available space options. I see when he sees that if we push it right up to the kitchen area we could not only access the fridge from bed BUT do dishes. If we had a keen interest in doing so, which I don't but I like options.
If we push the mattress the other way we could press it up against the patio doors and during the hottest days of summer we could open the door and sleep with our heads practically outside. I see his brows lower as he considers the loveliness of a soft cool breeze in the middle of the night during the hot summer.
Now his eyebrows are not only back to their normal position but they are attempting to crawl down over his eyeballs, perhaps the brows wish to see what his brain sees and want a peek inside.
He grabs the tape measure and starts measuring how much space we'd still have for incidental things like walking.
When he speaks, it's with the far off tone of some one who isn't all the way in the here and now. He's in the there, the there where the reality is different than it is in this exact moment. In that there, the reality consists of pretty much everything as it is now BUT with one crucial difference. We could sleep in front of the fire place on our beautiful king sized mattress in the middle of the living room.
"We could always put the sofa in the bed room, make it a second storage area type place......." His voice trails off and now I walk with him through imagination into the room that would formerly be the bedroom and would then be the sofa storage room in the future, should we go down this life altering mattress moving path.
With those words I know he is hooked.
Life fricking rocks.
When you are a teenager they tell you all sorts of overly recited pap like "You can be anything you want to be, do anything you want to do when you are an adult." The unspoken words include the disclaimer "As long as what you choose falls into what is the accepted norm and doesn't differ too much." Meaning chances are no one would reallllly support the dream of creating one's own country with lots of rum based drinks and a 3 story house made from bamboo and flamingo feathers.
So that moment, when you realize you don't actually have to follow the list of "rules". The ones that are unspoken, the ones that say beds go in the bedroom, and your sweetheart agrees with your mattress revolution. That moment when the eyebrows are significantly low on the face and the mattress is but a half second away from being hauled into new and uncharted territory, with unparalleled access to the television, computers, fridge and patio doors. That moment, that's not only love, that's just fricking cool.

Semi-Precious Love

Our love is semi precious, diamonds schmimonds, those things are expensive, and hard and what's the point?
Our wedding rings cost 15 dollars each, well, the second ones did. The first ones, the really cool copper bands we bought in Arizona for the grand total of 3 dollars, and I think that was for both of them, the ones we wore even though our fingers turned green and they squished and dented because copper was soft and eventually starting breaking, the ones we wore before we were even married, ohhhhhhh, living in sin people, just had to be replaced.
When they broke, our hearts did a little too because they were our first rings but we traded up, tucking the pretty, tarnished, turning greenish bands of half broken copper away and picked out the ultra cool celtic-esque bands we wear now.
We're doubly married, not because these are our second rings but because we wear one on each hand and it looks really cool. And when we are together, which is always, and people comment on the rings and query as to their significance we smile and say it means we're doubly married and they turn pale and start thinking about polygamy. But then they get brave and ask what doubly married means and we just smile, and gesture elegantly with our hands so that the store's fluorescent lighting glints on them and we try to look mysterious, which is a little hard to do in toe shoes, and we gather our grocery bags in our hands and float out of the store like royalty.
Our wedding cost 250 dollars. And it rocked. 60 dollars for the marriage license stuff, 75 dollars for 3 seafood meals, and 100 dollars fr the dress.
I didn't need a fancy dress but my husband steered me to the poofy section of the Macy's store and I gulped and we had a fine time together as I tried on every dress they had. I am pretty sure it was the prom section. But it was our wedding, and we had fun. Most people say they remember walking down the aisle, I remember the time spent modeling dresses for my husband. He liked the strapless, sizzling black dress with sequins. I liked the penguin colored dress that I figured could double as a vampire costume in the future. I am thrifty that way.
I am pretty sure I saw at least one eyebrow raise because I chose a predominantly black wedding dress.
I am pretty sure that I saw two eyebrows raise because I wore Halloween socks with my sandals. Dirt cheap sandals I bought at a Longs Drug store the year before, big black rubber soles and velcro straps, the perfect place to tuck one teeny tiny Canadian flag pin. They showed off my Halloween socks like nobody's business.
In my wedding photos, that we took ourselves with the camera on self timer, trespassing, literally trespassing, in somebody's Orange Grove show us as a deliriously happy, and damn swanky looking couple. My husband sporting a tie that made his blue eyes pop, me in my penguin coloured ball gown-esque dress...and no body knows but me that under the layers of floor length tulle and faux satin that my feet are adorned with Halloween socks and beach sandals. Well except for the double eye brow raiser, my husband and the world because of course I was so proud of my feet that I took a photo. (Incidentally I am pretty sure I have worn crazy socks to most of the momentous occasions in my life. At least momentous as defined by laws and society, my high school graduation, INS appointments and marriage. Cool.)
We celebrated our 7th wedding anniversary not long ago. And just like when a birthday, his or mine, rolls around we haul out the calculators and do the math. Because we can not remember not being together, and assigning a number makes it seem weird. How can it only be 7 years of marriage????? ONLY 7?
And then we grin because we can remember when we hadn't even met in person yet but were engaged, though I suspect there was more eye rolling by folks unnamed back then, and the moment comes back with a harsh crystal clarity that makes my face flush because it was all such an accidental meeting online. So random, that it scares me. What if I hadn't messaged him? Right out of the blue, a complete stranger, just to chat, like the hundreds of other people I'd messaged and chatted to every day? But he laughs because he doesn't believe we couldn't have met. If it hadn't been that it would have been something else. We're like magnets, though I do not believe we are opposites, only magnetic in that if you shook us up in this giant world full of people the pull would eventually draw us together.
Snap.
We spend more time together than I suspect people married twice, or even 3 times as long as us have. We are together 24 hours a day with the incredibly rare exception when he has a business meeting and for the hell of it I hang out at a store while he business-izes.
We finally bought 2 cell phones, the cheapest ones they had because during the second last business meeting, he couldn't find me at the mall. The cell phone we had which we hadn't used in a year had apparently died and we didn't have 2 because why would we? We're always together. But he was clever and played Rockford and staked out the most likely place I'd eventually show up. The book store. He's ingenious that way, and he showed me the note he left in the Nora Robert's book inside in case I came in the store from a different side and we laughed because I had already bought the book. But not the one with the note, darn.
So we got 2 cell phones.
We celebrated our anniversary with style. One bottle of port, a loaf of crusty homemade kalamta olive sour dough bread, 7 kinds of cheese, smoked salmon and the new Jim Butcher
book. We took turns reading chapters.
We thought about going out but why would we? The best place in the world is at home.
I really do think our love is semi precious, I have always thought it weird that diamonds are associated with love. Because they're *rare*? That's sad. Made under pressure? Weird. Cold, clear and expensive? That is not my love.
Our love is colorful, plentiful and in some ways cheap. Puffed out chest with pride, cheap, because love doesn't cost anything and should be easily available to everyone.

Coyote Complex....

(Photo courtesy of me, cause I took it last year. I am thinking just by examining the details of the coyote's posture that this is feller I heard outside...)

A dog began barking at 4:07 in the morning from a distance of a few hundred feet of the house. Oh do not worry this is not going to disintegrate into a "shaddduupp" ya dang dog type post. First of all being the revolving schedule type people that we are, we were wide awake and about to make some fabu garlic fries.
Second of all he probably had a reason for barking, even if it was a silly reason it was his reason. Like he'd like to go for a walk now, or have some extra crunchy food or voice his opinion on the neighborhood rabbits.
Bark, bark bark, he went.
"That dog sounds really close." I say to my husband in that way a person does when they are unable to stop themselves from stating the obvious.
Sucked into the conversation pit of obvious-icity my husband looks up from his computer, cocks his head to the side and listens, answers, "Yep, close."
Then, as if things couldn't get any more exciting the barking dissolves into the mournful, goosebumps raising, ear piercing wail of a coyote.
"Ohhh, it's a coyote." I say (see obviousness is a disease. Treatable but pretty hard to shake)
Alan agrees, "Yes, it really sounded like a dog but it's a coyote." The circle of obviousness continues and we wallow in the pit of boring words that surrounds us.
But the coyote, he keeps howling, and barking.
Which is nothing new, gangs of coyotes run through the area on a nightly basis, serenading us with their eerie songs and scaring the beejesus out of us during scary vampire movie scenes when the victim is jusssssst about to get their throat sucked and the silence is complete as the vampire shuffles closer and then..... "Awooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo".
Chorus of coyote howls, which sound suspiciously like a pack of crazed lunatics on the loose, whooping it up California style, let loose so close to the house it actually sounds like they're on the sofa next to me. Which is saying something because our sofa is a love seat, and the coyotes would have to be in my lap to be on it with us.
Can I get a breathless "ohhh, yeah that's closssse." from the crowd?
Thanks.
But this night in particular the solo voice of the coyote seems mournful, sad and desperate.
This isn't just any coyote I realize, as I rise from my computer chair, half frozen with indecision and an instinctive need to right what ever wrong is causing this coyote such emotional pain that he's out there all by his lonesome in the dark crying.
This coyote is obviously separated from the pack and is crying out, his voice the only coyote voice on the damp night air, bouncing off the hills around and echoing back at him in a cruel mockery of his aloneness, perhaps tricking him for just a second, one second, that he's not alone that there are other coyotes out there also calling the same sad wail of his own, looking for company.
I stand.
Something needs to be done.
Some sort of chemical reaction has happened in my brain. I can almost see the bubbling beaker of frontal lobe potion being poured into the parietal lobe test tube of calm rationale and causing a frenetic explosion of a super-hero-wanna-be complex that froths through my nervous system like a 4th grade baking soda volcano's lava flow.
"Alan that coyote, he's alone. ALONE!" I say this to my husband with all the intensity as I would if I saw a brush fire, or a car jacker or ice cream on sale at the grocery store.
My tone alerts him, his auto pilot for stressed wife situation kicks in and he rises from his computer, fingers blindly hitting Command S, (saving what ever work he's working on) and turns to gather his wide eyed wife into his arms as we both listen to the lone coyote cries.
"Well it's NOT like you can go out there and do anything." He says in that calm, "everything is A-OK " way he has. The same voice he'd use if he saw the moon exploding, or a nuclear bomb about to crash on our heads, calm and collected his voice is the base to my acid frothed brain that is insisting I go help that coyote.
He emphasizes the "Not" in that way he does, with just the slightest firming of the word that I'm sure no one else would notice, but I do, because I can hear all the things he says even when he's not actually saying them.
I hear, in that slightly deeper, gently amused "NOT" that a coyote is a wild animal, not a dog. They could have rabies and at the very least sharp claws and teeth. That it's not our place to go out and interfere with the emotional needs of a wild animal and that I'm inferring a helluva lot into one lone coyote's noise. I also hear, as the "t" sound from the "Not" rolls off his tongue that he can practically see me in my super hero outfit that I really oughtta make some day to go with this complex I have. Popping up at strange noises outside, on alert, ready and willing to run out and fight on the side of justice and scared coyotes.
I sigh, deflated.
And suddenly, another coyote starts yipping from the other side of the house. It's voice joining the first.
No Disney movie music started swelling into a triumphant crescendo indicating dramatic and life changing, happy ever after events were taking place now, in case you blinked and missed it with your eyes...but it should have.
I gasped.
"HE'S FOUND!!!!!!"
Alan laughs, the coyotes do indeed sound like they're talking to each other and is that a hint of relief I hear in the first coyote's barks? Or is that relief just in my own head?
"The second coyote is telling the first one he thought they were supposed to meet over by the old road and that's why he's late." Alan says, because he can translate coyote and can hear what I'm hearing.
We barely have time to grin foolishly at each other, still hugging, still standing in the middle of the living room, a human part in the coyote soap opera of the night when the 2 coyote voices become what sound like dozens.
It's a coyote party, a reunion!
Everything is going to be o.k, oooookaaaaaaaay.
We separate and head back to our computers, the coyote party drifts away until their voices no longer are carried to us on the night air.
Having a wacky schedule means more than garlic french fries at 4:07 in the morning. It means getting to be part of the secret, dramatic life of the neighborhood coyotes.
I'm sure the coyotes could care less.

An Understanding Marriage.

(me and my sweetie)

My husband wants to buy sea water...and yet we have no fish....no pool...no hot tub...but apparently we are lacking in sea water.
And not just ANY sea water, of course not, that would be silly. God forbid we get regular old, shore water...bleck. No, what he is currently lusting after is DEEP sea water. Pumped up from the fathomless depths of the ocean and available for people to buy at 55 dollars a liter.
And this is why we work so well together.
Because I understand, because I sat here in the morning....well actually it was afternoon as we have flipped our schedules about again..(for the umpteenth millionth time because who can live by a clock?)
I sat there, blearily blinking sleep from my eyes as he excitedly explains WHY we might want to go ahead and get our selves some deep sea water.....and the way he explains it, makes perfect sense.
I understand.
In fact, the way he explains it I almost feel silly for not having thought to buy 55 dollar a liter sea water, pumped up from the fathomless depths of the ocean, myself...as it now seems so obvious. Even half asleep, dream images still crowding my brain...I understand. And I understand him.
Luckily he understands me as well.
He understands how Halloween is literally around the corner by my calculations. How it's actually less than 2 months away....when you think about it. Like I think about it. As I excitedly explain that June doesn't count because of course we're IN June, and Halloween is IN October, so those 2 months are pretty much shot, and since we're about to hit July, you might as well say it IS July which leaves us with only 2 months until Halloween.
And while he might listen attentively to my spiel with a smile on his face, that tugs up the corners of his lips in that, "about to chuckle all over the place, cause Halloween aint no sea water kind of look", he understands.
He likes to have crunchy things with his meal. The man would and does eat corn chips next to anything and everything. If he pops up from a meal of mashed potatoes and gravy to "get a little crunch" I understand. Just as he understands I don't want to lick the sour cream spoon.
I don't care that I just inhaled a giant dollop of sour cream with my beans because when it comes to the last scoop, I don't want to lick the spoon. When I have finished my beans, my sour cream to bean ratio would be completely ruined by licking the teensy weensy last speck of sour cream from the spoon, so he takes care of that for me. Saving me the untold agonies of wasting a teeny weeny itsy bitsy bit of sour cream that I'd be tortured to wash down the sink and would probably end up putting the spoon in the fridge with the 17 other sour cream spoons we would have if it were not for my hero, my sour cream spoon hero. Who, selflessly, and heroically steps up to the plate every time, totally obliterating his own sour cream to bean ratio by licking the last bit of sour cream from the spoon. *swoon* He understands.
Just like I understand that life would be better with a pulley. We don't need a pulley, but undoubtedly life would be fricking sweet if we only had a pulley system rigged up, some way....for something. Not a day goes by that my sweetie doesn't dream loudly about how some rope, a pulley and some imagined *system* could have us hauling what ever we wanted up over the patio railing rather than archaically walking it up the stairs. One short flight of stairs...not when a pulley would be so much more satisfying. And I understand, it's not the destination in life...it's the journey they say. And he gets that, his journey will be by way of a complex system of weights, counter weights and silky white rope from the hardware store, NOT just the mundane plodding of feet up the stairs.
And I understand.
Just like he understands my desire for triangle shaped food. Because nothing tastes quite as good in any other shape than triangle. Instead of one medium sized triangle of watermelon he will cut me 6 little triangles. So that I might experience full triangle glory, over and over again with each little piece. I don't even have to ask. He just does it, and seems to relish my enjoyment of snapping off each pink little triangle tip with my teeth almost as much as I enjoy doing it.
Because he understands just how dang good a triangle piece of watermelon tastes compared to those disgusting half moons people some times cut.
We understand each other so well there are days we complete each other's sentences.
Not always correctly, but it's the attempt that counts.
"Honey do you want-"
"A canoe? For what? No wait, do..I want...um..a raccoon? Wait, I know, a yard stick!!!"
"Umm.....no...a coffee? The raccoon sounds cool though."
Life's pretty dang good when you don't just have a marriage, but an understanding.