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Old photo of youth. Eternal shaggy bangs and chubby cheeks. 

My friend's family didn't eat pork because of their religion. Her Mom told me once that Yul Brynner got trichinosis from eating bacon. I incorrectly remembered it as he had died of it. I ominously warned everyone of this who had the misfortune to eat breakfast with me for the next 17 years, nervously chewing and wondering if it would eventually lead to my end, too. I didn't really even know who Yul Brynner was, but he didn't die and it was spare ribs, not bacon. He sued the restaurant, and his wife joined in the suit claiming it irrevocably altered their marriage. I was always fascinated by my friend's family. Her parents were both photographers, and they lived in a house on stilts right next to the river. Sometimes, when the river got up, they had to row a boat to their house. There had been a tragic car accident claiming the lives of two of their four children, and I would stare at the portrait of the entire family and wonder what those two who had died would have been like. I observed her family as if they were my private Tenenbaums or Glass family. They had a pottery wheel under their house in an outdoor room where the older of the two sisters threw pottery. If she wasn't throwing pottery, she would be in the living room, watching British comedy.  My friend's father refused to turn the air conditioner on in the dead humidity of the south until July. They were fine financially, but my friend would roll her eyes and attribute it to him being cheap. She would spend most of her time over the summer at my house, soaking in the AC and Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls. Her mom would turn on their oven, heating the house up to an even more unbearable level, and make homemade Yucca chips that she'd offer us. This was before the Whole Foods Movement and Kourtney Kardashian's Wheatgrass shots made the Top 40. I loved her hippie food, but my friend longed for the weekly spaghetti my Mom cooked.  She introduced me to Tony Bennett's music. We where on a trip with her family to Europe once, and they almost didn't make the flight in time. They got stuck in customs with their cases of vitamins and herbs and film. When a college girl got tanked on the trip, they offered her ginger the next morning for her hangover. I had a blister completely encircle my right baby toe, and they offered up mole skin. The girls were allowed to paint their bathroom wild colors, and they were both effortlessly artistic and intelligent. They both were in Gifted and Talented, so named as if the rest of us where some mediocre trolls that crossed the school doorways every day. They'd often laugh at inside jokes, not bothering to explain the meaning to outsiders. Their unique family sense of humor that seemed as hereditary as their freckles.
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High School Graduation

When I had completed third grade, my parents announced we'd be moving from my hometown of St. Louis, Missouri to a rural town in Arkansas called Pocahontas. I was devastated.

Thus far, I'd attended a private Catholic school, and even though we weren't Catholic, I adored the atmosphere. I went to mass once a week where I was comforted by the holy water fonts. I loved the kneeling and praying, the beautiful statues, and most of the Sisters that taught me. I appreciated how we colored in a different candle on our color pages during Advent each week, and I loved lugging around my cardboard suitcase of things to sell for fundraisers. I enthusiastically peddled Weebles each year, and once my family had purchased them, I'd harass them to give them to me. I was always in trouble in Catholic school. I went to the office to see the Principal, and my mother was called more times than I'd care to admit. Yes, I was a problem child from kindergarten to third grade. I was smart though, and I read at the top of my class. As in, myself and one other boy were the only ones in the group, and we were given the task of assisting with teaching the lower groups along with Sister Hanneke. We mostly went to a smaller sanctuary for mass, but a few times we to memorized and recited verses in our
larger church which was/is was one of the most beautiful I've ever seen. It was built in 1898 by Slovakian Catholics.

I grew up surrounded by diversity, and I loved that. I was my Mom's date to glamorous parties thrown by her friends where the guests spoke to me respectfully, as a fellow individual, never a child. I paddled around the hot tub with doctors with heavy accents with skin as beautiful and dark as mine was translucent and pale. I was convinced I would marry one named Sayid who tickled me, and I knew I wanted to have a life like my Mom's best friend. She had a wall to tall tank of Oscars behind her couch, and I was allowed to play in her lab at the med school and deliver babies from obstetrical manikins or give breast and prostate exams while she and Mom worked.
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We moved over the summer, and that upcoming Fall, I started school at M.D. Williams Middle School. At my new school, we would change classes seven times throughout the day. At Most Holy Trinity, we had never changed classes. There were so many more students than in Catholic School, and I was a 4th grade child with the anxiety level of 10 adults combined. On my first day, I couldn't find my class. There were tons of papers taped up with lists of names so you could find your homeroom class. I was completely overwhelmed. It had started from the time I came to the tiny town and saw the cover of the local paper, The Star Herald. This was certainly no St. Louis Post Dispatch. There were society pages detailing who had visited whom that week.  On the cover of the first edition I read was that Bessie Lou had the first tomato crop of the season. There she was, photographed center cover, displaying a ripe red tomato proudly. I wondered where in the Hell Mom and Dad had moved me. As I struggled to find my class on the list, hot tears began to roll down my face. I was near sobbing when I heard a voice behind me, "Hey, is there something I can help you with?" I turned to see a girl with long, silky blonde hair and a welcoming smile. "I can't find my class," I manged to get out. "Well, I don't know you, but I can help you," she responded. She went on to ask me my name, and then she determined that we were in
the same class. I felt like she was my angel.  I followed along behind her, and it was the beginning of our friendship.

I spent summers with Paige in the shed her Mom had set up for us to play in with our American Girls. We played "Olden Days" and pretended to churn butter. We spent nights snuggled up with her cat Gizmo and her rottweiler, Tigger. We made mud pies, and I pet her bunnies through the squares of their cage. Paige was friends with everyone, and she was readily accepted into the popular clique in school, however, she never socialized with them at the expense of anyone else. She would be a rare one who could move effortlessly through all the social realms.  I was kind of an oddball outsider/loner, and she was my closest friend for years. Later, we both went to college at Arkansas State University, and we remained dear friends.

As often happens, we lost contact over the years after college, and we eventually reconnected on Facebook. I noticed over the next few months that we had significant differences in politics. I let those differences anger me, and I unfriended Paige frequently. She reached out to me, and explained that she still cared about me and that I had hurt her feelings. I convinced myself I never had known her and that maybe we had grown apart.  Yes, in some ways we had, but I wasn't giving nearly enough importance to the many years we had together, our history. I was nasty in my responses to her, edgy and angry. She was honest and calm and kind. Many times she moved past my anger with grace and forgiveness. She continually sought me out.

Recently, Paige shared a photo of several beautiful brooches and tagged me, "You need these, Sarah." It struck me because I had recently bought a similar one on a trip Kelly and I had taken. My eyes were immediately drawn to a beautiful peacock one, and I laughed when she posted a comment, "I'm going to try to find you the peacock one. It reminds me of you and all of your sparkle!" It made me smile down to my bones, and it made me sad about how I had treated Paige. She hadn't seen me in years, and yet, she knew me as if we had sat side by side in class yesterday. A few weeks went by, and I received updates from her that the peacock brooch was sold out, but she was still on the hunt for it. Then, "I have your brooch!"  I told her where to find me in my office on campus, but I cautioned her it was hard to find. In truth, I was nervous. What if we had nothing to talk about? What if I didn't know her anymore.

Today at work, I walked down the hall to run a quick errand to the ATM. As I rounded the corner, there in the sunlight was a mini version of Paige. I couldn't have missed him for the world. Her youngest son Abram has her exact eyes, lashes, and skin. Paige stood there with her back to me, and I was able to surprise her. We quickly hugged, and we were able to share a quick chat. They presented me with my beautiful gift to me proudly, and I adore it. It was as if no time had passed, and we laughed so much, as we always had. I was charmed by her funny little boy, and we finally reluctantly parted with promises to get together soon. We hugged, and she smelled good as she always had when we were kids.

It was the highlight of my week. I am grateful for Paige's friendship even when I don't deserve it. It was a special deep down to my bones feeling, timely reminder (Ash Wednesday), and moment.

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Beautiful brooch Paige gave me! I love it.  



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Image from
here


Lately, I've been nagged by how untrustworthy our memories can be, and how other times, they rise from some inner depth and break the surface unexpectedly and crystal clear. I've recovered something so wonderfully precious, yet randomly, as stumbling across a fourth leaf clover.

I have this one memory that I was so sure was true, and I kept it for years. One day, I mentioned it to my mother. It involved a square maroon car that we used to own, and I was shaken when she responded, "We never owned any maroon car." "Yeah, remember the plush velvet seats? It was some type that old women drive," I responded in an effort to jog her memory which to be frank, is horrible so can I really trust it? We went around and around, but I guess she'd remember what kind of car she owned. Where did this pseudo memory come from? How and why did it appear? It seemed so vivid. Come to think of it, I also remember a dark navy car that was similar. Maybe I'm getting the color confused? I think my grandparents gave or lent it to us. Same sort of velvet plush seats. I could put up the armrest in the front seat, and no one could see back to me. I'll have to ask her if that's a true memory. I guess I still keep the Maroon Car Memory even if it's false. It's a parallel universe memory of sorts that doubles back on itself as now, I remember it...in that I didn't remember it!

Actually, quite a few of my early memories involve cars. This one involves a dark green Aries with lighter green vinyl seats that stuck to your legs and burned you in the hottest part of St. Louis summers. At some point in my childhood, I found a delicate robin's egg, and I found it to be the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen thus far in my young life. I asked if I could take it to school for show and tell, and someone, maybe my stepmum, agreed. I was so excited to show the class, and off I went, climbing into the front seat with it cradled greedily in my palm. As I was buckling my seat belt, I crushed it between my palm and the metal clasp. I can remember wanting to cry out and being shocked. First, that this beautiful blue egg was gone, just like that. Secondly, the tactile horror of cold yolk squishing between my fingers and getting on my school uniform. That memory floated up recently and caught me by surprise! It was so lucid, it seemed as if it had happened yesterday.

Nostalgia has overtaken my life lately, and I am not a nostalgic type. I generally never want to go to my hometown, and I hate even thinking about high school and my youth because I made horrible decisions repeatedly, and I wasn't sure who I was and I was uncomfortable and stifled in small town monotonous Hell. I guess, I'm going back before that, though. I do like to remember and think about when we still lived in St. Louis, and when I went to Catholic school. That's a nice spot for me to visit in my thoughts. I'm comfortable going there, and it feels safe. I remember my Grandma Jo's kitchen vividly. She had this little framed picture of a mouse that had a different saying for every month. I would also sit at the kitchen table and snack while seeing what the mouse was doing that particular month. The prized part of the memory and my youth in that kitchen always took place in the afternoon. She had a small kitchen window above her sink, and she had put prisms and crystal suncatchers there. When the afternoon sun came through the window, the room would be covered with rainbows. It seemed so magical. If I'm remembering correctly there were a few plants tucked in the window too as it had shelves. I have two windows over my kitchen sink, and I have taken up the hunt to find pretty things to make rainbows and sparkle in the sun. K. has taken up my effort, too. He actually picked out our first addition to that window, a bluebird of happiness we picked up during our trip to
Terra Studios.


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Bluebird of Happiness in our windowsill

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I want our kitchen to have rainbows everywhere like this one but a ton more! Photo from here.


Another in my memory Rolodex, is my dad taking me to a store called Faru that specialized in imports. I loved how it smelled in there, and how everything was so unfamiliar and unique. He bought me many treasures from there over the years--jewelry, this display with small sticks that had different African animals on the top of each one (I can't remember what they were used for or what they were called), and a beautiful handheld mirror with a fake jade handle and butterfly on the back. I loved dusting them when I cleaned my room and wondering if I'd get to travel to see the countries they came from someday when I was grown. I always was transfixed by this eyeball jewelry in the case, and I remember Dad telling me it was of the Devil and to never buy it. That must've really stuck with me because now when I see any of that stuff in necklaces or jewelry, it sort of creeps me out. I think he was referring to the evil eye, and it was supposed to ward off bad things. But my memory usually goes first to it being of the Devil. He may have said the second, but I usually go with the first explanation. I didn't tell my Mom his take on it, and I convinced her to buy me a cheap version that turned my finger green. She relented even though, unprompted, she said it was, "Ugly and weird." 

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Photo from here


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Photo from here


To close, here is a video of dancing lights from a crystal.  I like the rainbows best, but the teeny light flecks are nice, too.  

 
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Gas Station Roses


I took notes from our trip so I could tell you about it.  I typed them out on my phone along the way, and they make no sense to anyone but me. I've done this before on trips, and then forgot about the notes.  Then I've went back later and reread them.  Some things I recognize right away and others confuse me.  I had good intentions to start telling you about the trip yesterday and to do things around the house, but instead, I drank two beers and listened to music and worked on recreating my "Night Music" playlist that I accidentally deleted.  I laughed and kissed my husband, and I yelled at our bad dog.  I love her in spite of her being so terrible.  She's not been raised properly, and pugs are number 4 on the list of the top ten naughtiest dogs Kelly tells me.  

Oh, but first on Valentine's Day we went to Thai Taste for dinner with our gift certificate Kelly had managed to save from my weekly prying.  There was nobody there, and it was nice to have the whole restaurant to ourselves.  I had Thai Iced Tea and Tom Kha Soup with veggies and tofu.  I never want any meat.  For dessert, I scalded my tongue on the Tapioca Pudding with Coconut Milk.  I just slurped it down because I'd had it before at other restaurants, and it was usually lukewarm.  Anyway, I overheard our waitress chatting with a customer waiting for a pick up order at the front, and I briefly understood life coaches.  She said that she'd come to the restaurant when it first opened and that she liked the food so much she ate there for three days straight, begging for a job each day.  She told the customer that she loved the food, and she just worked there because of her love of Thai food.  She said she was a Christian, and she looked at it as another form of service.  She really enjoyed getting to know the different people who eat Thai food, and that "even if it was a bad day at work, most people view Thai food as a comfort.  Plus, when she was having a bad day, it wasn't like someone would die like at the ER."  She told him she believed in carrying this into any job she worked in, and she was really happy working at Thai Taste.  I told Kelly I wanted to hire her so she could teach me how to live my life.  She sounded so happy as if money just took care of itself and that it was better to be satisfied with what you are doing every day.  I'm not currently into what I do everyday, but at 35, I still don't know what I want to do when I grow up.  I'm most passionate about books and coffee, and I think I'd love to work in one of those fields but I'm terrified about having no money and no health insurance.  I don't know, though.  She almost convinced me to ask for a job there.  I admire people who just know, without  a doubt, what they want out of life.  I've never been that sort.  People with decisive walks make me swoon because I've always been a meandering sort.  

After the trauma of dropping off the dog at the vet to be boarded, Kelly and I hit the road on Friday morning to head to the Northwest Arkansas.  It was a nice and sunny drive, and I drank lots of iced coffee on the way. We split different flavored "beef sticks" which I got a kick out of calling them in a pervy way.  Being overly caffeinated made me leer at him, and say, "Gimme some of that beef stick," and then I would laugh wildly because I'm rarely mature when it's just the two of us.  That's the fun of married life for me--being a complete bizarro day in and day out with the one you love.  Anyway, there was a pork and ostrich beef stick, and I screeched, "Who in the hell would think would think of putting pork and ostrich together?"  Seriously, it's obscene. When I ate it, it just tasted like the spices and like every other beef stick in the package.  Just the idea of pork and poultry mixed up weirded me out, I guess.  

We finally stopped at a gas station after several hours in the car and did the stiff walk like zombies.  They had all their Easter candy out already, and I bought two of the Reese's White Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup King Sized eggs.  The eggs are the best because I hate the crinkly edges on peanut butter cups.  When I was younger, I told Mom once before I properly though it out, "Ahhh, the reason for the season," while clutching a Cadbury Creme Egg.  She almost slapped my face, but then I thought about it and realized what I was saying.  The man in front of Kelly and I at the gas station joked with the employees.  He was a regular, and he scolded them by name when couldn't remember what brand of cigarettes he liked.  He gave them three chances to get it right, and finally, one did.  When we were walking across the parking lot, I heard the intercom, "Customer #47, your shower is now ready." 

I will tell you more about our trip soon and show you photos.  It's a day by day retelling because we saw so much.  In other news, we've decided to drive instead of fly to New Mexico.  I'm okay with that because while I hate the drive through Oklahoma, I do love driving across that barren part of Texas.  There's this one part where they warn you by sign about 20 times to get gas before entering no man's land.  Last time when we drove through, we stopped at the gas station everyone stops at, and I checked in on Facebook out of boredom, and someone had labeled it as "Gas Station in the Middle of Nowhere."  That made me laugh, but that's really what it is.  I can't remember if the scrub brush barren zone was actually in Texas or New Mexico.  It rides that border so maybe it's in both.  

Kelly stopped by our office today, and I called him "Baby" in the workplace. It slipped out fast as a mouse before I could catch it.  One of the students leaned around the column to see who was with me. 


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I had lunch out with my dear friend Natalie and my Mama today. Nat said she thought I was feeling sassy, and I was because it's my Friday today. I don't work again until next Wednesday because Kelly and I are going on a little weekend trip for his birthday/Valentine's Day. I kicked up little tantrums here and there until I sat, back to the wall, in the center of the rounded corner booth and surveyed the entire restaurant like a queen and ate Loaded Baked Potato Soup and was finally satisfied. I'm only friends with people who will humor and spoil me, and my promise is to provide entertainment with my neuroses and flair for the dramatic in return. Nat's so nice she'll make you defensive as hell about her. She's humble even though she's incredibly talented and it's admirable, and half the time I spend wishing I were more like her. The other half the time, I think about beating to a pulp anyone who has crossed her. After lunch, Mama kidnapped her pug-grandchild and Facetimed me at the office. I answered from the front desk. Everyone in the office could probably hear the conversation, but I was feeling free and didn't care. "Look who I've got," she said, and I could see Mearl happily between Mom and Dad on the couch. She's probably getting fed so much she won't eat dinner, but that's what pug grandparents are for. We're those people. We don't have kids, and my parents were always like, "Don't have them. We don't care about grandkids." Thank God.

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Mearl-Purvis Ponder with My Mom Getting Spoiled.  She's a lady even though everyone thinks she's a boy because of her blue collar.

 
Today, a student walking by said: "You are so pretty," and I batted my eyes and lit up like a Christmas tree. Later, two other girls came in giggling and said, "We're looking at boobs." "Enjoy," I responded. I know they're adult women, but when you're 35, and they're 21, in my mind, they're girls. They have been listening to 80s music in their office and dancing. Everyone is a bit lighter because of the sunshine and almost crawling into Friday. They have been plying me with sugary coffee drinks and bossing me about what shows to watch on Netflix. They're right though, The OA
is great! They're obsessed recently with the OJ trial and Monica Lewinsky because they were wee when that was going on, and I enjoy being the expert.

This morning, K. and I deflated the air mattress because our new bed has arrived! As we rolled this way and that, pushing the air out with our weight, I confessed, "I had a sex dream with Todd Clever last night. That's what happens when you make me watch rugby before bed." Fortunately, K.'s not a stupid, jealous sort and knows he has nothing to worry about ever. He's mine for life, and besides, Todd was in a nudie shoot in ESPN magazine and his name is "TODD CLEVER", and who cares about a Viking beefcake? In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have said anything, but I'm always tell all. He's so muscly and beautiful that he's not even real. His middle name is Stanger. I give K. permission to look at boobs at a Hooters if he'd like in exchange and repentance for my dream dalliance.
Todd Clever
Photo from
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On the agenda for our upcoming trip--Frank Lloyd Wright house, Giant Spider, maybe the 410 Vintage Market, flock of bluebirds of happiness, grilled cheese restaurant, heavenly used rare bookstore, and ancient ruins, an old brothel and a yurt.  Details when we return, I promise.  It'll be early next week before you hear from me.  

I read about a morning wedding on an old Livejournal recently, and I think that sounds so perfect now! Maybe I'll take Kelly up on renewing our vows someday, and we'll have a morning wedding and then eat beignets and have black coffee. I love the clean slate of morning. I've always been a morning person. I love the promise of the day. I can't think of anything more romantic than promising your eternal love and waffles.
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Valentine from my sweet Grandma.  I love that she still takes the time to jot out handwritten cards and letters to people all the time.  The inside reads--"Be Mine.  Keep the prayers coming. Love, Gram!"

 
Last night, around 1 a.m. Mearl woke up and started frantically pacing in circles around our bed.  She would jolt a little bit like she'd had a spasm (or how dogs have the hiccups--but it wasn't the hiccups).  I was up for about 2 hours with her doing that, and her tail was unfurled and down, and her pug eyes looked at me with confusion.  We both finally passed out, and before you know it, the alarm was going off.  She and I both yawned a lot and forced ourselves to start the day.  She seemed a bit better this morning, but I was still worried.  Perhaps from lack of sleep, maybe neuroses, potentially that I posted on the pug forum, but I was quickly convinced that my precious pup was suffering from Meningitis or Pug Dog Encephalitis.  Fortunately, I called Dad and he took us to the vet.  He tries to be gruff, but he patted her a few times to comfort her--she adores my Dad.  She has a really bad ear infection so she's on 8 drops in each ear twice a day and pain meds.  

The vet office was  a nightmare, though.  The vet is either really good with everyone excited, reuniting in the lobby and licking and jumping and yapping and baby talk and head pats, or the vet is really bad.  Today, the vet was really bad.  A grown burly man dressed head to toe in camouflage--he looked like a farmer--came in with his Boston Terrier.  He cradled her like a baby the whole time, and he rubbed her under her chin until she dozed against his chest.  When they came out to collect her, I noticed her eye was horribly infected and bulging even more than Boston Terriers usually stick out.  He was insistent that they were gentle with her, and he reluctantly passed her over to the assistant.  Then, he sat down in his chair, and he started to cry.  He had tears rolling down his cheeks for quite some time, and he snuffled  and several times wiped his entire face in his t-shirt.  I wanted desperately to hug him, to tell him how I didn't know what he was going through but how sorry I was.  I wanted to offer comfort in some way, but I also didn't know if how he felt about crying in public. I wasn't sure if he was embarrassed since he kept staring off outside the door, away from everyone in the room.  I was the only one on his side of  lobby, but I didn't want to impose on his sadness either,  you know?  When I'm having a hard time and crying, I hate people to touch me, and I'd prefer to be left alone. Out of respect for him, I averted my eyes just in case he wanted privacy.  I really wanted to just pat his knee, though.  I wanted to not say anything but give some sign that I understood, that I was sorry.  They took him back to speak with the doctor, and not 15 minutes later, an older woman came in dragging a dog slowly behind her.  The animal looked in pain and crouched low, and in spite of her soothing tones, it dug its heels in and just allowed her to pull it's defeated body behind her. This was definitely a bad case.  She covered it with a towel and sat near it in a chair.  She was already crying, and she whispered and whimpered apologetically to it, "I waited too late. I waited too late."  My eyes welled up with tears, and I figured I was about a minute away from crying myself. The assistant quickly came out, comforting both her and carrying the huge dog in her arms and found them a private room.  The administrative assistants apologized to me for making me wait, and I shook my head, fighting back tears. Compassion was heavy in the room.  The television played softly in the background, more news of the world falling apart. Everything on the Internet lately leads with “This should terrify everyone,” and it does, but this moment of pure compassion in the lobby, our eyes cast down softly, or when we dared lock them, hoping to convey our love, our understanding.  The madness of the world seemed like it was happening on another planet.  We all just stared at the 80 something year old parrot.  He meowed or said "America" intermittently while furiously ripping newspaper and throwing it through the cage bars onto the floor.  

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From inside Hail Dark Aesthetics--one of my favorite shops in Nashville 

At work, they are amused but not surprised that I know about the rally and that I was invited. The "Republican" or "Fox News", as he is known behind his back, a holdover from his first week on the job when he brazenly turned on the television in the lobby to said offensive channel, calls me "The Radical." I used to loathe him, but he grew on me like a tumor. We don't agree on anything, but he is sometimes funny. He posts up photos in his office of Trump and motivational quotes that give me the heebie-jeebies. They are all in black and white because he doesn't have access to the color printer. He has plastered them over a Kandinsky that a colleague left in that office.  The work still partially peeks through.  I begin to wonder if I might have synaesthesia as the artist did because whenever I look in there, I can certainly hear the colors drowning under it all and screaming.  In spite of this, I let him borrow my phone charger every day, and he always returns it. He tells me he likes my hair this "standard color" because it is back to my natural color, dark brown. I secretly chuckle to myself and wonder what he'll think when I come in next week with a buzz cut (more on that later, it is deserving of it's own post).

She tells me that she is always surprised when I post my pictures of myself in my twenties when I only wore vintage, and I say, "Yeah, I was beautiful and thin." I just happen to find things more important now than being beautiful and thin. Old age will do that. So, I was pretty. Who cares?  I really took to heart when I hit 34 that quote about as a woman not owing anyone pretty.  I don't see the point in pretending to be modest about it all when wasn't anything special I did or any talent I developed.  

I love the new house, and I'm discovering many things about it.  I think it will be the perfect yard for picnics in the spring and summer.  I must get one of these.  Then, I'll be able to tie Mearl-Purvis (my pug) to a tree near me, and she and I can laze about reading books and chewing sticks.  You can decide who will do which.  There's a perfect tree to sit under, and beneath another tree, I think I discovered a rose bush.  I hope so!  Kelly used to have a rose bush at his old house, and when we were dating, he would sometimes bring roses for my blue bud vase.  Then, when I moved next door to him, he had the roses and I had a gorgeous hydrangea bush.  We both had pecan trees in our backyards in our side by side campus houses, and our new house has a pecan tree, too.  

I have almost bought out the Asian grocery in town of Green Fields Thai Tea.  It's makes me sing silly songs and laugh at myself, and Kelly laughs too and says, "Someone's in a good mood."  Really, I suspect it's just the good hit of sugar.  I took home some of these Green Tea cakes.  They remind me of Fig Newtons, but they have Green Tea mixture in them instead of Fig.  I also have already finished the Peanut Mochi I bought.  

We are waiting for a new bed to arrive so in the meantime, Kelly is sleeping on the couch, and Mearl I sleep on an air mattress in the bedroom, back to back like Girl Scouts.  She is tiny and furry, of course, but she snores loudly.  I love her stupid wrinkled face so much. I love her marble eyes, and I love how she farts and bites and sleeps under all the blankets with her head on the pillows.  In the morning when my alarm goes off, she lays on my chest and yawns with her "bubble tape tongue" unfurling as Kelly calls it.  

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Wednesday on the ride home, I scramble quickly for my phone to capture him. He is mid laugh with the sun setting, his beard on fire, the copper red coming out that I adore. My Abe, his elegant fingers cradling his head.  He is the fruition of my mother's prayer.  He is everything I didn't know I needed.  I tell friends I have never ever seen him angry, and they think I'm joking or exaggerating.  It's true, though.  Not once since I met him.  He presents the gift to me, and I am all bravado as always.  "What's this," I sneer skeptically?  He has checked out a book for me from the library--Danielle Dutton's Margaret the First:  A Novel.  It is the perfect selection for me--heavy on whimsy with a thick froth of decadence. I've lost count of all the kind ways he shows his love to me, but this one is one of my favorites.  He said he'd read several reviews during his incessant periodical combing, and he thought of me.  A book, no less!  He whips up mashed potatoes for me for dinner because he knows they're my favorite.  Sometimes, he runs to the grocer, and his talent for always picking perfectly ripe avocados is frustrating but rewarding when a dinner of chips and guac is served.  We are spending the night with our animals babies in the new house for the first night.  We have a lot of unpacking to do, and we will for the next few weeks probably.  He promised to celebrate with Thai food soon.  



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thesarahscope

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