It's been a while since I've been here (it actually looks like my rate is about 1 blog per year). This one is necessary today, because I have to post a sad update to a story I posted here back in 2010, called Songs in the Key of Elvis.

We lost our dachshund Elvis last night, to complications of a recently-diagnosed case of canine diabetes. We still haven't come to grips with the loss of the valiant little hard-headed spirit of this house. It is all still too new, too raw to talk about, other than to say this:

Elvis was a damned fine dog. And that's all there is to it.

Come autumn, there'll be sweet tater pound cake

Finally, FINALLY it's beginning to get cooler in Virginia. Can't imagine what it's been like further south, in the LowCountry of SC and in Georgia and Florida. (Well, I kinda know about Georgia, thanks to my cousin Tink, but the rest of the area--well, I wish you guys all the air conditioning in the world.)

Went through my first hurricane with The Man and Elvis. Elvis sweated out the two or three days before Irene struck; he paced, he whined, he stayed literally underfoot with whoever he could find in the house. Irene was only a couple of hours away when all his pacing and worrying stopped, and he got into his favorite chair and went to sleep. We figured if he wasn't worried any more, either we were doomed or we'd be fine, so we stopped worrying too.

And we were fine, actually, not counting the three days without air conditioning and the loss of a refrigerator/ freezer and garage freezer full of food. We'd tried to manage things so there would be minimal loss, but you can eat only so many smoked barbecued pork ribs and grilled chicken legs.

....and the writing life goes on, with self-editing and learning from other good sites like Jessica Morrell's The Writing Life Too and Lynn Viehl's Paperback Writer. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll meet up with these smart, funny ladies one day. In the meantime, I'll keep writing and keep watching them. (And I'll go buy a generator for the next hurricane.)

Songs in the key of Elvis

New year, and a new man in this experience I call my life. Things are so different when a man is in the picture --especially one who likes to cook and is willing to do it for me anytime (well, almost). I love The Man, and I love his dinners. I love everything about him, all of the 10,000 things that make him who he is.
One of the neatest things about The Man is actually not him, but his dog Elvis, a cool, sleek, upscale red dachshund who runs the house. My Man is Elvis's chef, housekeeper, driver, gardener, medic, confessor, and doorkeeper. Me, I'm the one whose fingers smell like beef ribs. Elvis shamelessly flirts with me in order to get a treat, or hopefully a rib bone, preferably one well-seasoned with garlic, sea salt, and Tellicherry pepper. El is always the first one to admire my brand-new pair of pants, kiss the new leather shoes, nose-print the designer purse. He will use all his guile to talk me out of the last bite of the sandwich, the last meatball, even the last piece of carrot. Between meals, he will come to lie down on the couch beside me, head resting on my leg, watching me longingly. Elvis knows the laws of seduction well, and he's willing to do almost anything to get the food he wants.
Elvis and The Man have a history together, and it shows in their daily interactions. They play together, they talk, they smile at each other. (Yes, Elvis can smile, and no, he's not just baring his teeth. It's the genuine article.) They sit, arse to tuches, and dare each other to break wind. Usually Elvis wins that contest, blowing a foul kiss first and running The Man out of the room with it. (Moral of that story: Eat more beans. You never know when you might need the extra gas.)
The most endearing sight is when The Man settles into his recliner and relaxes under the dark brown chenille blanket. That's the signal for Elvis to jump up and parallel park along The Man's long length of leg, snuggling underneath the blanket. The nap is short-lived; usually The Man gets about 45 seconds of sound sleep before Elvis gets too hot and has to crawl out from under the blanket and walk around for a while on The Man, and then jump onto the floor.
These two have been through some rough spots, and the sight of them dozing together in the chair is a picture of familial peace. The Man has been Elvis's life, as owners generally are to their pets, and for his part, Elvis has been The Man's friend, his confidante, his reminder that The Man is, after all, still needed and loved.
Elvis has not given up his place in the house to me, now that I'm sharing his wonderful owner with him; he's simply been generous enough to let me care for the both of them. It's a lovely family, and I'm proud to be part of it.
And El-Dog is glad to get the ribs.

...and good reasons not to be famous

I wonder, if Mr. Jackson had thought that his autopsy results, his medication habits, and a live feed of his dead remains would be broadcast repeatedly to the world at large, I wonder if he would have changed anything about himself or his life. The man who was by turns a public meteor and a recluse has nowhere to hide now that he's gone and all the information is fodder for the news cannons.
It's the best reason I can think of to remain anonymous, to stay a relative nobody in the world. It's great when everybody knows your name; it's not so great when they get to hear the 911 call to your house and hear about your post-mortem results on the 6 o'clock (and the 10 o'clock and the 11 o'clock and the Good Morning Working Stiffs! show at dawn) news.

Short Notice About Fame

Did you realize that the words of obstetricians are immortalized everywhere in our society?......Believe it, Grasshopper! Look at any door in any public building. They all say PUSH.

(Any man who is reading this may now say, "Well, that was a bunch of crap," and sign out.)

Bright idea for Trouble # 236: When your significant other says, "I'm sorry," you reply, "You sure are."

It's not the heat, it's the stupidity

96 degrees out, and am I going to walk down to the mailbox? -- Noooooo, siree. Not this chubby chick. There are clothes to be washed and text to be skritched out, so I am hibernating indoors this afternoon,waiting for the kids to fly in to the Charlotte hairport from New Yawk City.
It's peculiar when I get here. When I have a spot to say something, everything in my head that was important simply vanishes. It's as if the act of looking at a white blank page is sufficient to completely erase my memory. (Or else it's Oldtimer's Disease setting in.)
I did have a moment of clarity last night, when I expended a lot of time, cusswords, and bug bomb on a group of ants who mistook my house for a dinner and dance club. I was cleaning and swearing and getting all 10-18 (that's EMS talk for lights and sirens going on the ambulance), and suddenly the Voice in My Head That Knows Everything said, "Shut up and be grateful you have a house, and sweep every day so the ants won't come back."
So I did. That Voice, man, it knows it all, sees it all, and tells it all. In spades. (How was I ever so fortunate as to acquire it?.....thank you, Left Brain, for supplying me with such an intelligent, stubborn monitor. It is very good at looking after me when my son cannot.)

Sweatin' it out

Short entry this evening. Hot day. Neglected to water the 'maters and beans and cukes this morning and when I got home this afternoon, the tomato plants were screaming "HELP ME" and wilting. -- Looks like it might be a long summer for all of us.
Watching the swine flu hoorah. I think the best thing for everybody to do is eat a lot of garlic and citrus fruits and wash their hands a LOT. (Grocery stores, fast food places, and movie theaters are incredibly gooky with bacteria.)

Bought kid's birthday presents today. Howcome he always asks for all this good stuff?.....(and why do I always get it for him and not for me?!?)