Usher in Fall

You wouldn’t be able to tell from the blog, but I have been writing like crazy these last few months. I don’t post it here because it is mostly melancholy ramblings that, though poetic, really don’t lend themselves to a story. Yet.

I think becoming nostalgic is my way of dealing with the changing seasons. More than any other season, the transition to fall is the most dramatic. You notice fall. The leaves turn. The clouds roll in. The endless sun returns to a respectable late rise and a snuggle-inducing early set. The mornings are chilly – the evenings too. It feels good to drink tea and other hot beverages. The slow burn of a sip of bourbon feels better in the fall.

And who doesn’t become a writer – a philosopher – with a glass of bourbon in their hand?

Fall is the time of year where life in our household is different. The hubs works crazy, unpredictable hours so that leaves me to make decisions, feed myself and the little, and I still have to manaqe to keep up with all of the other things that make our house our home. This can be overwhelming, unless you take an approach of letting the sea wash you where it wants. I have become a master at staying afloat. I take to floating so well, that when the land comes back into sight, it is hard to rid myself of my sea legs. (Is that what they call it when you step foot on solid ground after being at sea for a long time and you are all wobbly?)

I saw this picture back when Pinterest was a tiny little fledgling of a site and I fell in love with it. I pair it with the quote, “She stood in the storm, and when the wind did not blow her way, she adjusted her sails.” This pairing is probably the only thing that has stuck with me long enough to even consider a tattoo… but that’s a story for another time.


Let’s just say that I am lifting my glass to the ocean of fall and ushering in my sea legs!

Oh. And p.s. – that is not my drawing. It’s hers.

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Clementine and the Tractor Trailer

She wouldn’t have won. Thank goodness it didn’t come to that though. I was cruising down McKinley Boulevard… it is my normal route and I generally take it because it feels safer than H Street. I was approaching Alhambra, I had a green light. I noticed a truck roll up the intersection, he was slowing down, and I presumed it was to stop at his red light. I was in the intersection. He wasn’t slowing down to stop – he was slowing down to make a right hand turn on red! I slowed down – he paused. I swerved, he rolled forward again. I reached out and pushed off his grill into the opposing traffic’s lane. I was lucky that there wasn’t oncoming traffic. I was lucky he was going slow enough that I could deflect myself without getting hurt. I was just plain lucky.

As soon as I was through the intersection, I pulled over. I was shaking. I was crying. My first thought was that I didn’t have life insurance. My second was that I should take a picture of the truck. I didn’t get the picture. I was trying to compose myself.

He kept on going. Asshole.

I was hit by a car 11 years ago. It took 10 years to get back on a bike. In the last three months I’ve had two close encounters – though this last one was the only one where I was truly afraid and not just pissed because someone else wasn’t following traffic laws. I would say that I need to ride better defense, but man, I feel like I had done the right thing. I had been defensively riding.


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Holding off on the frontal lobotomy

This morning. Little E woke up in an uncharacteristically good mood. He was pretty adamant about eating toast with me for breakfast. We sometimes let him sit in a regular chair, partially because it is what he really wants, partly because he can get himself up and we can’t stop him, and partly because it is so damn cute to see his little head barely poking up above the table while he eats. So this morning, my little mirror image was watching me, mimicking each of my moves. Toast to my mouth – toast to his mouth. A long sip of coffee – a long sip of milk. We take a break when he looks in his bowl and realizes that he is out of toast. So he uses that sweet little voice to call out a request for “More?”

I’m not gonna lie. I was tearing up at the breakfast table this morning. He isn’t even two yet and I feel like we have this communication well beyond his age. At least this morning that is how I felt. Of course there are mornings where I can’t figure out if he wants milk, a banana, a diaper change, his stuffed giraffe, or a frontal lobotomy to release the demons that are making him throw himself on the floor in frustration. So I will take this morning, those happy tears, and my memory of the sweetness and put it away for those lobotomy days.


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