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Life is only what you wonder.

Thursday, March 31, 2005

Buffalos Don't Have Wings

Kim was running around the restaurant the other day showing everyone the new "buffalo nickel" (actually it's a bison, not a buffalo, but whatever).
"You can see a penis on it!" she told everyone excitedly.

Now, I'm thinking maybe if you cover up a part of it with your thumb, or you look at it from the right angle or under the influence of certain hallucinogenic drugs, the entire animal itself looked like a penis.
Kind of like Joe Camel. Ever since someone pointed out that his face looked like a penis and scrotum, I just can't look at ol' Joe the same way anymore.

People are always finding things in money. Like how you can fold a one dollar bill so George Washington's head looks like a mushroom, or you can fold a twenty in such a way that the Twin Towers are on the one side and the Pentagon is on the other (Eerie!), or how you can fold a five dollar bill a certain way and see the Japanese attacking Pearl Harbor.

Anyway, I finally got to see it, and I was a little non-plussed.
That's what she got all excited about?

Clearly, this chick needs to get out of the house more.

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Heavier Things

It's been awhile since I posted. It couldn't be helped really.
I have a few "frivolous" posts in the hopper I could have posted, but I ultimately decided against it, because it didn't seem right with all the other things that have been going on.

As the title suggests, this post is not a light and frivolous one.

The husband's sister passed away the other day.
She had Renal Cell cancer, so we knew it was coming.
She had been pronounced "terminal" about a year ago, and at the time they gave her six months to live, so she made it six months after they said she wouldn't.
That's something.

Death can be sad, death can be tragic. It can be a shame, it can be horrible, and awful to contemplate. Death can be a lot of terrible things.
But death can also be a blessing -- but you don't hear too much about that aspect of it.
She was in a lot of pain. Pain most people couldn't begin to imagine. She lived with that kind of pain every waking moment of the day.
She was doped up on oxycontin and oxycodone just to make it bearable. But she hated the drugs, they made her too tired, too prone to sleeping all day.
The cancer had spread until it was literally eating her from the inside out. Her lungs, her heart, bladder, kidneys, liver, stomach. Even her brain, making her forgetful and causing severe headaches.

She was on hospice, which is another way of saying "keeping the patient as comfortable as possible until they croak". Oh, they'll see you have an adjustable bed, a wheelchair, a walker, oxygen, vitamins, and all the drugs you could possibly want or need, but they don't provide IV drips, or resuscitate you if you stop breathing or if your heart stops beating. That's not what hospice is all about, it's about making dying an easy process as possible.

She was mobile and somewhat active (she needed a walker to get around) until about three months ago, when she started deteriorating rapidly. It was a week or so ago when she couldn't move or go to the bathroom by herself. But it was a few days later when she couldn't keep anything down that we knew she was reaching the end. Food, water, medicine, anything taken orally would come back up again. Medications had to be given by suppositories at this point. Still, how long can someone live without food or water?
We knew it was only a matter of time.

It's sad, but I've already dealt with it. I've known for awhile that sometime soon she would be dying. I've already mourned and grieved.
I think the husband has, too, although it's much harder on him.

It sounds horrible, but when I got the news a part of me said, "Thank you, Lord, for ending her suffering".
I'm all for fighting the good fight and holding on as long as you can, but sometimes letting go is the best thing you can do.

Thursday, March 24, 2005


Some music gets stale and dated after awhile, and some music just stays fresh. Almost like it's got an unlimited expiration date.
Of course, that all depends on who you ask. Opinions vary on this subject.

I was thumbing through my CDs yesterday and came across my Best of the 80's CDs.
It had been awhile, and sometimes I like to be nostalgic, you know? So I popped it in the CD player.

Good songs, all, but so dated. I couldn't even listen to "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" by Cyndi Lauper, or "Don't You Want Me" by The Human League.
I loved both of those songs so much, back in the day, but after hearing them so much they became unlistenable.

No so with Duran Duran.
"Rio" still rocks, even after 20 years.


Tuesday, March 22, 2005


I went out for cocktails last night with the husband.
Why I persist in trying to go out on a Monday night is beyond me. There's absoloutely nothing going on, anywhere. This stinkin' city might as well just close on Mondays!
Central had three small groups of Guppies (gay urban professionals) sitting in the corners, still wearing their little suits from earlier, drinking their cosmos and Tom Collinses. Probably discussing mergers and aquisitions or something.
Aside from them, it was just us and the bartenders and Britney, Justin, and the A*Teens ("Floor Filler!") on the video screens.
The Hippo wasn't much better. About a dozen lesbians took over both pool tables and one older guy was playing the Megatouch at the corner of the bar, with Lindsay Lohan, Hilary Duff, and S. Club 7 on the video screens.
Double yawn.
Except I did run in to my buddy Eric who was leaving as we were going in, so that was at least something. I originally met Eric when he was working for YMS a few years ago. (You know, they pay you $40 just to answer some questions and take an AIDS test - something you should be getting done regularly anyway. How cool is that?)
Aside from that, the night was kind of a dud.
I got to spend some "quality time" with the husband, though, so it's all good.

I got up today and went to get my hair done. After I got back to the house I used my streaking kit to put some highlights in it.
I was afraid it wouldn't turn out right (hairanoia), but I figured if it didn't I could always cover it with brown dye if I had to.
Actually, it turned out pretty good (if I do say so myself). Subtle through most of it, a little bolder near the front.
Noticible, but not "too much", if you get my meaning.
(You can see a photo of the end result on the right. Kind of a crappy picture, but it's the best I could do.)

The husband hasn't seen it yet, though.
I hope he likes it!

Monday, March 21, 2005

Quote Of The Day:

"The moving finger writes;
and, having writ, moves on:
Nor all your piety nor wit,
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it."

-- From The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
(11th Century)

And on that note, I'm going out to enjoy the beautiful weather. It's gorgeous out!
Have a great day!

Saturday, March 19, 2005

No Walkie, No Talkie

About a month and a half ago, when I was at the Radio Shack at the mall picking out my new cell phone, I saw the various models and brands attached by retractible wires to the little display stand with little plackards telling the name, features, price, etc.
My eyes were immediatly drawn to the metallic red number I saw there.
In case you don't know, red is my favorite color in the world.
It's the color of blood, the color of rubies. Red means stop, danger, warning, and alert. (It also means "beef" with bouillion cubes and Ramen noodles, but we won't go there.)
"Condition red" is the term used in the military when you're in combat.
If identical twins (I keep coming back to that, don't I? I must have a fetish) were standing before me and one was wearing a red t-shirt, I'd be all over the guy in red.

I'm very attracted to red things, so when I saw the shiny, red, candy-like phone sitting there looking all purdy, I longed to make it mine.

"That's one of our latest models," the salesman said, appearing at my side, as if by magic. Either he was as silent as a cat, or I was so mesmerized I wasn't paying attention, but he startled me. He didn't seem to notice as he continued his pitch.
"It has wireless web, speakerphone, camera, camcorder, one-minute memo function so you can use it as kind of a tape recorder . . ."
The even modulated tone of his voice had me in his thrall at this point.
Speak on, dreamweaver, speak on.
". . . and," he said in conclusion, " It has a walkie-talkie function!"

And just like that, the spell was broken.

Walkie-talkie phones are my pet-peeve of the moment.
I hate them.
Hate with a capital "H".

My number one gripe about the walkie-talkie thing is they're so loud, so obnoxious. Everyone I've observed using them seems to feel the need to turn the speaker volume up to maximum, and they shout into it louder than you talk to your Aunt Alma who's hard of hearing. And that loud ear-shattering "beep" (which is more like a skwawk than a beep, really) between exchanges in the conversation is enough to set my teeth on edge.

"HEY! WUZZUP?!" >BEEP!< (static)
"NUTTIN'. WHERE YOU AT?!" >BEEP!< (static)
And so on, ad nauseum.

My number two gripe is all about the privacy issue.
With the walkie-talkie, everyone within earshot (which is an approximatly 30 foot radius, or more) can hear both sides of the conversation. It's impossible not to hear it, even if you're deliberatly trying not to. Don't they care that everyone around them (whether they're trying to hear or not) now knows that Tawanna (who is apparently a big ol' slut) is pregnant and doesn't know who the baby daddy is? I don't know Tawanna, and I don't need to know anything about her. I'm at the newsstand looking at magazines, and without even trying I'm subjected to information about some girl's sexual habits and medical state of the moment.
I don't care, OK? I have my own things going on.

When I'm out and about on my phone, I don't even like people to hear my side of the conversation -- because it's none of their business!
Which is why I try to be as quiet as I can, talking just loud enough so the the other party on the line can hear me, but nobody else.
Sometimes I even wear my headset, which probably makes me look like a receptionist, but you can whisper when wearing that thing and whoever you're talking to can hear you as clear as day. (The only thing about that is before they notice the headset they probably think I'm muttering to myself, which means they think I'm a crazy person, but I can live with that.)

"Of course, it doesn't just come in red," the salesman continued, his voice as sweet as buckwheat honey, "There are four other colors to choose from."
"I don't really want this one," I replied, "What else do you have?"

Friday, March 18, 2005

I Think It Needs To Be Said . . .

I know you read this blog, so I know you'll see this . . .

You probably think I've been dodging your phone calls on purpose the last couple of days, and . . .well, you're right, I have.
I needed some time to process everything that happened and to decide what to do about it.

I don't know quite how to say this.
I'm trying to find the right words, but it'll come out the way it does, and you'll take it however you will. You might get angry, but there's nothing I can do about that, really.
I think it needs to be said, so I'm saying it, OK?
And know this right off the bat: if I didn't care I wouldn't be saying it at all. The fact that you're reading these words should say alot.
I wouldn't do this for just anyone.

First things first: I'm not going to tell you you have a drinking problem. I don't believe in being preachy and holier than thou, and I'm not going to be that person on my high horse looking down at you. I'm not like that, OK? That's not what this is about.

As I said, I'm not going to tell you that you have a problem with alcohol, but isn't it possible that you do? Many times we talk on the phone and I can hear the alcohol in your voice. You slur your words. Sometimes I can barely understand you.
If it was one isolated incident, I could overlook it, but that has happened on many occasions.
That troubles me a little.

But the kicker came the other day when we were out. "Lunch, shopping, and possibly Happy Hour" were on the agenda.
Lunch didn't happen, shopping didn't happen -- but drinking did.
You had no interest in shopping, checking out the art museums, or anything else I suggested.
You wanted to drink.
And you did. Starting at twelve-thirty in the afternoon until you passed out at four o'clock at Leon's, falling off your stool and striking your head on the floor and bleeding all over the place, forcing me to call an an ambulance for you, and trying to contact your husband but you were too drunk to remermber his cell number.

Oh, you have your excuses.
You hadn't eaten anything. You were still feeling the "effects from the night before", you didn't know how drunk you were getting, etc.

Part of me blamed myself. "Gosh," I told myself, "I should have known you were that drunk. I should have done something to keep you from drinking that much." I was kicking my own ass for letting it happen.
But then I thought, "She's a big girl. She should have stopped herself."
And I think I'm right about that. You should have been able to stop yourself. The fact that you didn't suggests (to me, anyway) there might be a problem there.
Doesn't it to you?

Some of the things your husband had to say after the incident were eye-openers also.
"This isn't the first time she's done this" "Once she starts drinking, she can't stop" "I've had to bail her out many times before" "She doesn't have an off switch" "This happens all the time"
I'm not just going strictly by that, though. It's what I've observed for myself that has me concerned.

You frightened me the other day.
You truly sincerely did.

You've apologized to me profusely, I know. Every message on the voice mail has started and ended with "I'm sorry".
"I'm sorry you had to see that", "I'm sorry I put you through that". "I'm sorry that happened"

I'm sorry, too.
Not that I had to go through that.
I'm sorry you didn't know when you'd had enough.
I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to visit the museum - there was a really great exhibit. I think you would have enjoyed it.
I'm sorry I didn't get to show you the funky furniture at Nuveau, or to have a mohcciato at the City Cafe. I'm sorry we didn't get to go to Lambda Rising or to check out the retro "vintage clothing" at Dreamland.

I'm not trying to condemn you, OK? I consider you a friend.
That's why I think you should think long and hard about the things I'm saying.
Go over the checklist and then ask yourself if you think you have a problem. And if you think you do, you should probably try to get some help with it.
I'll do everything I can to help you.

Think about everything I've said, and then get back to me.

Your friend,

Thursday, March 17, 2005

"Never Wear Green On Thursday"

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

I'm working a double shift today, but the kind folks at my restaurant are letting us wear green today intead of our usual uniform shirt.

Any reason not to wear my uniform is a good one!

The only thing I'm doing special today is going out for a grasshopper (or two, or three) after work.
I can't stand beer, green or otherwise.
Have a good one!

(P.S. the title for this post comes from the anchient belief that only gay people wear green on Thursdays.)

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

I'm A Gangsta, But Y'all Already Knew That

    I got the rolly on my arm
    and I'm pouring Chandon
    And I roll the best weed 'cause I got it goin' on
Whenever I'm at work singing hip-hop in the Server station, all my co-workers start buggin'.
It's the funniest thing they've heard.
    "Lookit, yo! Jimmy's singin' Snoop Dogg!"
White men can't jump, and they can't sing hip-hop or R&B without being looked at like they're crazy.

That's all I have for today.
I'm meeting my homegirl Mary for lunch, shopping, and possibly Happy Hour so I gotta dash.

More stuff later, as it happens. (Yo)

Monday, March 14, 2005

Adventures In Sleep Deprivation

They say not getting enough sleep will make you crazy. I don't know about that, but I can say for a fact that it will make you fuckin' stupid.

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale.

Wednesdays and Thursdays I work double-shifts, which means I'm at the restaurant at least twelve hours both days, from the before the restaurant opens straight through 'til after it closes.
It's impossible for me to go to bed any earlier than 1 AM, and even more so if I've worked that night. I'm all jumpy, restless, and wound-up from working.
Oh, I can climb into bed anytime I want, but I won't get to sleep before at least 1AM, so why bother?

So Tuesday and Wednesday nights I'm lucky if I get 5 hours sleep.
"Lucky" being the key word there.
I usually make up for that Friday mornings by sleeping in 'til 11AM or so, but last Friday I had too much to do.
I was up at dawn running errands, paying the rent, getting Puppy Chow for Rico (who was totally out of food, and looking at me, licking his chops and seeming like he was wondering which parts of me whould taste best) -- You know, stuff that just couldn't wait.
I got done everything early, but it's also impossible for me to sleep or take a nap in the daytime.
It just won't happen, no matter how tired I am.
When I'm up, I'm up.

Friday night I was determined to catch up on sleep, but like a jackass I spent Friday night after getting home from work talking on the phone and playing with Rico and before I knew it it was 2AM. . .

Anyway, to make this long story short(er), let me just summerize and say I barely got any sleep for four days in a row, ummmkay?
It'll save time and I don't want to bore you.

Sunday, I agreed to work night-shift for Nancy who had a Bull and Oyster roast to go to, which means I was working yet another double: 7:30AM - 10PM or later, on our busiest day.
Let me just say I didn't want to do it AT ALL, but Nancy practically got down on her knees and begged me, and I'm the boy who can't say no, so . . .

When I'm sleep deprived I get goofy.
I'm goofy anyway, so sleep deprived you can multiply my goofiness by a factor of ten, and my IQ drops like a brick.

Yesterday was a total disaster.
I kept spilling things all over the place, I kept bringing the wrong drinks to the wrong tables, forgetting things.
This woman had to ask me for a glass of ice water five times.

Also, when I don't get enough sleep I start to see things that aren't there (little imps dart in and out of the shadows), I lose my ability to read english, and I can't understand things people tell me.
I'm like a foreigner who barely understands the language.

    Gloria: "Jimmy, you just got a new table."
    Sleepy Jimmy: "I have a wet noodle?"
    Gloria: "New table."
    Sleepy Jimmy: "Nude? Who's nude?"
    Gloria: "They're not nude, they're new!"
    Sleepy Jimmy: "Who's new?"
    Gloria: (exasperated) "Oh, just go check your section!"
I got home at 10:30 last night and I went right to bed.
The only time I can sleep that early is when I'm that tired.

I got plenty of sleep last night, thank heavens, and, my, doesn't everything look so bright and lovely today!

Saturday, March 12, 2005

Second Annual

So you didn't win a Bloggie this year. You weren't even nominated!
Well, neither was I.
Life isn't fair. Get over it.

Anyhoo, here at Wonder Boy headquarters, I've concocted my own list of weblogs (and bloggers) who I feel deserve special recognition. So without further ado, I present . . .

The Wonder Boy Weblog Awards, 2005

  • Best new weblog (created sometime in the year 2004): Large Tony
  • Most consistantly funny weblog: No Milk, Please
  • Best tagline of a weblog: Fiercely fluffy! Fiercly horny! It's all about "feel ass"! Watercolour Boy
  • Best blog template I'd love to steal: Rocka (Again!)
  • Best Baltimore area weblog: A Fool's Fate
  • Best photos on a non-photoblog: Wahlee
  • Best-kept-secret weblog: Amnesia Sparkles
  • Most missed blog: The Great Gadfly
  • Best writing I'd love to emulate: little minx
  • Best foreign (non-US) weblog: Oh La La Paris
  • Best thought-provoking weblog: Dantallion's Canon
  • Best template makeover: Nemontemi
  • Best weblog for photos of sexy men: Urban Boys
  • Longevity award for a blog that's at least 5 years old: Leather Egg
  • Sexiest blogger (male): Tony, Large Tony
  • Sexiest blogger (female): Liz, Glitter For All!
  • Best topical weblog: The Rhetoric
  • Best GLBT weblog: Towleroad
  • Best all-around weblog: Boy's Briefs
  • If you're on the list, congratulations! Take a bow and pat yourself on the back.
    Any acceptance speeches can go in the comments. Please be brief, though, as we are pressed for time.
    I don't have any prizes to give out, unfortunately, but you can put this award graphic (which I made with my own two hands) somewhere on your blog, if you like, along with a link to this post.
    (Please copy it to your own server. I need all the bandwidth I can get!)

    Friday, March 11, 2005

    Rico Has Two Daddies

    I have been watching carefully, looking for signs or clues that growing up in a gay enviornment is traumatizing little Rico in some way.

    The last thing I would want is for him to be emotionally scarred.
    Then he'd be all dysfunctional, and have to go through years of therapy and counseling and that would be just terrible.

    So far he seems to be a happy, healthy growing boy puppy.
    Having two daddies seems to be working wonderfully for little Rico, because we each fulfill different needs of his.

    My husband G. is Rico's romp-buddy.
    They "play attack" one another, and roughhouse. It looks ferocious to watch, like they're trying to kill one another, but they're just playing.
    They run (not walk) around the block together.
    G. is the one he plays fetch with, and the one who teaches him tricks like "Jump!" "Roll over!" and "Shake hands".
    When Rico sees the husband he wants to play. He has boundless energy when G.'s around.

    I am his chill-buddy.
    I'm the one who takes him on liesurly walks through the park. He sits on my lap and gets petted and stroked while I'm watching TV or my nose is in a book.
    He's my little shadow, following me around everywhere I go.
    I'm the one he lays on when he takes a nap.
    I'm also the one who gives him baths when he's extra-stinky, trims his toenails, and brushes his coat so he looks cute.

    We both correct him when he does something wrong, ("Wee-weeing on the carpet is BAD! BAD Rico! BAD DOGGIE!") and we both praise him and give him Milk Bones and Snausages when he's good.
    And just like any parents, we worry about him when he's home alone.

    Yep, Rico seems to be flourishing under our parentage.
    As for the theory that growing up in a gay enviornment will make Rico gay too -- that's just an evil myth.
    Judging by all the bitches that Rico tries to chase after every time I take him for a walk in the park, he's totally straight.

    Tuesday, March 08, 2005


    Someone sent me this meme in an email. I thought it might be fun.
    Besides, what else am I doing?
    It's a toss up between my V.C. Andrews books and my comic books and graphic novels.
    The Lion King.
    Pectoral and bicep implants.
    Cockroaches. Pretty silly, huh? I'm 1,000 times the size of a roach. You'd think I could just walk over and goosh it, but they give me the willies.
    Not being able to keep still.
    Cell phone, keys, ID, and some spending money.
    No responsibilities.
    City Life by Stroke 9.
    A half-pound cheeseburger, fries, and a Sunny D. from the carry-out up the street.
    Several: Cabaret, The Crucible, Up The Down Staircase, I Am A Camera, The Effects of Gamma Rays on Man-In-The-Moon Marigolds.
    I was quite the "drama queen" in high school.
    Yes. Very much so.
    Only when they get in my face demanding money or cigarettes.
    Acoustic guitar, so if I ever was out of work I could play at subway stations and people could throw spare change in my guitar case.
    What kind of question is this? Cotton, I guess.
    French. You can say anything in French and it sounds beautiful. "Your face looks like a weasel's." would come out Votre visage ressemble à l'les belettes. (Translation courtesy of the Bablefish)
    Bourbon and Coke, mostly. Sometimes a screwdriver.
    When I'm feeling extra fancy I might get an extra dry Grey Goose martini (extra olives).
    Only my ears at this point.
    Not yet. I keep saying I'm going to get one, but I never do.
    I have, but I prefer an automatic.
    They have more to choose from fashion-wise.
    My PS2.
    My spaghetti is to die for! It's very garlicky, though. You defin'ly need a breath mint afterwards.
    A PT Cruiser. They look like miniature hearses, especially the black ones.
    Mysteries, Science Fiction, Fantasy. An occasional memoir or biography, but I prefer fiction.
    The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emmuska Orczy.
    Pay off all old debts, get ahead on rent and other bills, and totally blow whatever's left over on electronic gadgets I don't need.
    I don't make a habit of it, but yes. There's no shame in showing your emotions.
    I'm both. I give as much as I can, and I take what's offored me, if I want it.
    Last week when I was with my Mom. We were talking about Dad and Mom started crying and then I started crying too.
    It totally depends on: how much I've eaten, what I'm drinking, and how fast I'm drinking them. Six or seven and I'm buzzing like a bee. Eight to ten and I'm ready for a nap.
  • Monday, March 07, 2005

    Who's That Guy?

    Matthew Lawrence (Joey's brother and the kid from Mrs. Doubtfire and the TV show Brotherly Love) is all grown up now.
    He grew up cute, didn't he?

    I used to see him years ago and I would think, "Damn, he's going to be one hot tamale when he grows up!"
    And I was absolutely right.

    Saturday, March 05, 2005

    Only A Motion Away

    My mother met me at the terminal when I arrived in North Carolina. My first impression, from a distance, was that she hadn't changed that much. A few more lines on her face, but that was all.
    She was so happy to see me - and I was so overjoyed (and relieved) to see her! We ran to one another and embraced and cried like a scene from a movie.
    It was wonderful.

    When I got to her house, which I had never been to before, as soon as I crossed the threshhold all these memories were brought back by the objects and furniture I saw before me: My dad's rolltop desk, the antique goose-neck rocker that belonged to my granma, the stained-glass lamp. All the things that I grew up surrounded by.
    Good memories, mostly.

    My mom fussed all over me, as moms do: "Are you eating enough? You look so thin! Are you taking care of yourself? Are you hungry? I could fix you something to eat."
    I confess I enjoyed it.
    It's been about fifteen years since I was fussed over (by Mom, anyway), and it's been that long since she had someone to fuss over.
    So I let her fuss.

    At one point we were sitting on the living room floor going through boxes and boxes of photos: of us, of other family members.
    We laughed, we cried. (Mom is weepy, like me. I think that's where I get it from.)
    She told me of births (my cousin Rebecca has two kids!) and deaths (Uncle Sam, Uncle Ben, and my cousin Brian all died last year).
    Life (and death) goes on no matter if you're there to witness it or not.

    My Mom seems to be doing OK. I can tell she's still mourning for my father, and I can tell she's frequently lonely, even though she tries her best to hide it. Her sister (my aunt Ruth) lives a ten minute drive away, so there's someone close by, but I still am a little worried about her.
    She tries to keep herself occupied though. She goes to Tai Chi classes at the Rec Center down the street from her house. (My mom does Tai Chi! How weird/cool is that?)

    I didn't have time to shop for a birthday present for her before I left, but I figured I'd wait 'til I got down there and see what she needed, but she wouldn't let me get her anything! I wanted to take her to the beauty parlor, but she wouldn't let me.
    The only way I could pay for her birthday dinner was to intercept the waitress on her way to the table with the check.We went out to dinner every night I was there and she kept snatching the check before I could and paying for us both.
    I was like, "Mom, I have money. Let me get that."
    "You keep your money, James. I'm just glad to do it, and that you're here."
    She's stubborn, my mother. I guess I get that from her, too.

    It was a nice visit.
    Happy, sad, enlightening.
    North Carolina was beautiful, very clean with almost no litter anywhere, and I found the North Carolina accent charming.
    I hated to go, in a way. But you can bet I won't be staying away so long in the future. I can't let that happen again - ever.

    I didn't realize how much I missed being home 'til I saw the husband waiting for me at the terminal after I disembarked and got my luggage. We both started grinning and we embraced right there, not caring who was watching us.
    Rico was so excited to see me he was jumping all over the place, totally unable to contain himself, and I was just as glad to see him.
    I love that dog.

    There's no place like home!

    It's back to the usual stuff at this point, I guess.
    I'm back to work tonight, and I need to start getting ready.


    Wednesday, March 02, 2005

    Greetings From North Carolina!

    this is an audio post - click to play