Monkey See, Monkey 'Do'

So, my astute brother has zeroed in on my dramatically lightened locks.  Specifically how it stands up in all its frizzy pale glory immediately after a swim.  You know, the water rinses off the multiple layers of carefully applied hair products giving a textural assist, and all that remains is color-stripped dried bits of collagen.  There's no body left.  And, bereft of color, the stuff has nowhere to go but up in a variety of directions.  Lake water, apparently, imparts a little extra somethin'-somethin'.  In one of his more humorous moments of observation, he began calling me "the blonde Curious George."  He lets it roll off his tongue with a playful twinkle in his pale brown (some may describe them as hazel) eyes and a slight smirk on his lips: typical teasing brother face.  This past weekend, after our cleansing dip in the cool morning waters of Lake McClure, he noted that with my relatively new look and strong personality, I was the equivalent of the "female silverback!"  As in the lead male gorilla of the troop whose hair tips turn gray with age!  'kay, thanks, brother dear . . .  Though now that I look at it, what is his fixation on primates in connection with me?  Inference comes naturally to my brain, but I'm coming up dry.

I think I'll stick with Glor.  But don't you just love brothers?  If you don't have one, rent one.  Don't buy the insurance.  Run up the free mileage.  And return him on EMPTY. 

In other news, John learned that the new HDTV DVR unit turns on . . . with the 'on' button of the new identical-to-the-old remote.  Ba-dum-bum.  Young teen Isaac fed his frisky steer a bucket of grain and a generous portion of hay before being whisked away to water polo practice.  A frantic Allison tore through the house searching for her cheer bloomers, eager to arrive at practice on time after returning home from a day of water park fun.  Miss Glamor-Puss Emma prettied herself up just in time for an extended evening outing with her tanned and handsome boyfriend.  Stemming from this latter development, mother in beck-and-call mode Dixie is presently taking an impromptu field trip to the neighboring town of Turlock to deliver her daughter to the aforementioned honorable boyfriend.

Yours truly had herself a delightful couple of hours of catch-up conversation with one of her best friends from her two years at Livingston High School.  This woman was perpetually organized and up on everything during that time.  Confident and goal-oriented.  Life has thrown her a few surprise curve balls, but I'm pleased to report that she has recovered and thrives with grace and a newfound sense of laughter and fun.  You GO, girl!

Now, here I sit, contemplating a change in toenail color -- Emma has a very cool shade of coppery gold in her purse (dang it! I forgot to get it from her!) -- and mulling over the world's water supply-and-demand situation and how our futures will all be impacted over the coming decade.  Just another day in the life.

What's going on in your neck of the woods?

The Homesick Hat

I was talking with Brother Gary and telling him how much my husband misses me.  "Well, I miss you, too!"  Aww.  He'll get one more day with me before I hop a return flight to Nashville on Friday.  Until then, it's hang time with Brother John . . . and family.

Two partial weekends with the Sweigards.  Two partial weekends of lake fun.  Lake McClure was the scene this time around.  A friend's houseboat loaned out for a free couple of days.  After dinner and trout fishing, everyone except John decided to sleep outside, with its cool breezes and lower temperatures.  (The living room was a bit of a sauna.)  Four little pallets set out on the upper deck beneath the wide open sky allowed me, Dixie, Allison, and Isaac an unobstructed view of shooting stars, the Big and Little Dippers, and the gauzy stretch of space highway known as the Milky Way.  Without the competition of city lights, the clarity and breadth of vision was breathtaking.  Such beauty made it quite difficult to nod off.  But, I enjoyed the light banter with my niece leading up to our eventual passing out.

Rarely do I float about on any body of water, be it a charming backyard oasis or a sparkling sprawl surrounded by swelling foothills, as a form of leisure activity.  Today was the exception.  I've got the perfect outline of a bikini -- sun-art in shades of red with white contrast, if you get my drift -- on my body to prove it!  My nephew and niece entertained with spectacular leaps and dives from the second story of the houseboat.  Once, and only once, I made the brave walk to the edge, trembled as I gazed into the water, and leaped off the edge.  UGH.  Me and heights, especially any type of departure requiring my body to remain suspended in air before gathering momentum for parts below, don't mix too well.

(I started this entry last night around 11PM; I jerked awake, laptop IN my lap in its OWN sleep mode, around midnight.  Decided to postpone further efforts until next day.)

On the off chance that readers out there feel I'm enjoying my time away from my core family far too much, please note that while I'm thrilled and blessed to be among my siblings and other family, and while the natural beauty of California has inspired me, my heart anticipates the reunion with my children and  husband, not to mention my home and friends and church and the great green treed landscape that is Middle Tennessee.

When John and Dixie interact with their kids, I bite my tongue as responses and instructions natural to a mother try to maneuver their was past my lips and into the situation.  This isn't my family.  These aren't my kids.  I don't believe they need my assistance or verbal donation to the cause.  It's just that internal switch that was flipped back in October of 1989 when my firstborn arrived on the scene doesn't simply move back to the OFF position when I am away from my own kids.  I want to hear my own brood snap at me, retort over a request, grump from the recesses of their morning sleep stupor, so mama can alternately calm, soothe, hug, ignore, boss, or discipline.  And, yes, snap back once in awhile her ownself!  

When Emma and Allie pull their long hair behind their heads into messy buns or atop their heads into skyscraping masses, my mind's eye sees Sarah and her impossibly tall hair piles that only add to her regal attitude and Ashley with her wavy tresses held from her face with a serious collection of brown bobby pins.  When Isaac peppers his mother with requests regarding playtime and playmates, and he annoys his high-spirited sisters with an endless stream of harmless jokes, I'm reminded of my own active son, Zachary, and his often impossible humor, endless energy, and boundless capacity for his own question assault on HIS mother.  When John rests his considerable length of leg on the more diminuitive form of his wife while relaxing on the comfy family couch which presently doubles as my bed, I yearn to snuggle in close to my husband, his arm around me, and fall into the best of sleeps, secure in the familiar comfort of twenty one years.  This morning, while rooting around in the fridge for a familiar topping to adorn my toasted Orowheat multi-grain sandwich thin, I found myself missing the contents of my own refrigerator, with its all-fruit fig spread, raspberry jam from the bakery, almond butter from Trader Joe's, and my special lite margarine without hydrogenated fats.  I'm already contemplating what I can cook and eat with my family in my first week back.  I hear I missed out on a great spaghetti and meatballs meals courtesy of my mother-in-law! 

So, there you have it.  My people.  My food.  MY life.  I like where I hang my hat.  My hat(s) like(s) it, too.  Though my hat has adapted to the spacious sprawl of the Sweigard ranch-style address, an austere dorm originally conceived for married nurses, grandma's familiar abode on Warwick Lane, a maze of a cabin nestled in the foothills, and a two-story houseboat situated on a spread-out lazy lake, it's quite eager to reclaim its hook in the utility hall just outside the guest bathroom and laundry room in my family's home. 

Illusions of Grandeur (or Visions of Grandma)

No, there is no error in the title.  I'm not deluded concerning big things.  But, I might be seeing big things in this overworked brain of mine that simply can't be translated from gray matter onto the surface of cyberspace at this time.  Two nights in a row, once from Grandma Opal's in Modesto and once from Brother John's in Merced, verbose entries replete with description and emotion ran across my mind but they fell just shy of my fingers.  Though my eyes are actually at fault, I believe, tired as they have been.  Jetting from town to town, and from place to place within each town, soaking up the images and words of each precious person, memorizing events as they unwind, deciding how to put it all into letter bites and bytes, will wear a body down.  Regardless of determination, discipline, and the drinking of 'energy.'

So, the blog ran dry.  But I'm back at Starbucks in Napa, this time trying out the Trancas Street location.  Not bad, but my corner seat in the Soscol Avenue store is a more natural fit for me.  Plus, I'm closer to Gary.  That works for this sister.

When I left the Sweigard house, all was quiet save for the Merced Irrigation District manager who was busy spiffying himself for the long work day ahead.  Last night, my spirited young niece, Allison, cried herself to sleep because her little white kitty has been missing since the 4th of July weekend.  She printed bright yellow fliers to distribute to neighbors: fortunately I had snapped a few precious shots of her with the slender slightly-damaged-at-birth feline last week . . . she planned to print and affix the best picture to her fliers this morning.  Even my generally stoic-toward-pets brother has been out of sync since kitty's disappearance.  We're all hoping a neighbor took her in because it happened once before and she doesn't have a collar or identification.  As the owner of a highly active indoor-outdoor cat, I'm well aware of the most realistic outcome in this scenario.  These are the emotional risks implicit to pet ownership.  Still, that doesn't make it any easier.  Especially on kids.  But I do believe it is a healthy way for them to learn about the very real aspects of life and death.  It is our condition.

Tuesday and Wednesday of this week were dedicated to my 90 year-old Grandma Opal.  She's a dynamo who has only recently begun to show signs of truly slowing down.  Her arthritis.  Her hip.  Her peripheral vision.  The sudden sleep into which she falls if she sits in her comfy chair at any time.  Some memory loss according to her, but that brain is still knife sharp where family history and curiosity are concerned.  And, she sent an entire loaf of moist flavorful carrot bread which she had baked with me for Gary.  I admit to consuming almost half the loaf during my visit with him today!  A close friend of hers can expect a batch of her famous homemade fudge in the next couple of weeks as a gift: Granddaughter Misty agreed to handle the heavy pan for her grandma.  Her reduced-capacity still blows many folks' full-on efforts out of the water!  Her yard and garden are yet under her attentive care -- roses, hydrangeas, Japanese maples, and geraniums to name but a few of the thriving specimens receiving hydration via the pink garden hose I sent her for her last big birthday; some days she goes for hours though probably more hours than is best as far as next-day recovery.  

I was treated to lunch at a local bakery.  Chicken-and-dumpling soup for both; a generous side salad for me.  There's no use trying to pay because grandma will win the debate.  Bend gracefully to her will.  And, as she rarely sees me, it's an act of love for her to buy me lunch.  I won't deny her that rare moment with her granddaughter -- whose platinum blonde look she truly found delightful.  "Cute, cute . . . it shows your face!" were here exact words, I recall.  More than once.  Her powers of observation, and the ability to relay them with exactitude and frankness, are known by all.  So, I expected to gain an understanding of her position on my hair.  Cute, however, was not quite what I had prepared my ears to hear.  SMILE.  She also said I was thinner than she had ever seen me.  Sorry, Miss Opal, now I know your ageing eyes have betrayed you!

An extended and gabby (per me and Cousin Misty, who lives with grandma) game of Canasta furthered my appreciation for my family's matriarch.  Did I mention knife sharp?!!  Though Misty emerged as victor, grandma's final score was closer to the winner's than to mine.  On a sidebar note, the alternating giggles and intelligent chat I shared with Misty was a true highlight.  That girl is golden!  Every time I quickly tap my way through my new Word Weaver app, cousin recommended, I'll think of the hybridized version of cousins our joint-gaming created . . . 'Glisty' and 'Mistoria.'  Grandma Opal is in affectionate and caring hands.

My senior year of high school I lived with Miss Opal (her Tennessee name, earned after she flew in for a visit years back).  Spending a night in the room which once belonged to Grandma Roxey (mother to Opal), showering in the small corner shower in the rose bathroom, perusing the photo albums and wall pictures, shuffling through the small stacks of oil paintings done by grandma's hands before an allergy sidelined her art, exploring the nooks and corners of her garden, it all brought that momentous stressful year back to me.  But my adult perspective left me feeling very grateful for the steadfast nature of that house full of gold-gilded and pink-hued curios and knick knacks.  Everything in its place and a place for everything.  But also a place for everyone.  Everyone who needed a place.  Someone feel free to correct me, but I think six of mom's eight children resided at 2713 Warwick Lane with Grandma Opal at some point in their younger pre-marriage years.

As we are guaranteed nothing but death and taxes (lots of both in the news lately), the prospect of once again being blessed with another stay at grandma's house is cloudy.  The human body becomes fairly reliable in its unreliability with the stacking of decades.  A trip next year with the husband and kids would be fantastic.  But I prepared for the 'whatever' of the human future with loads of digital images and as many stories as my memory would allow me to hold.  Countless hugs and good-byes culminated in my driving the red Toyota Camry rental down the road, headed south, with a slightly bent, bright-eyed, freshly permed white-haired gentlewoman in complementary shades of purple reflected in my rear view mirror.

Her spirit is strong.  Her faith even stronger.  The only worries I harbor concern the piles of solicitation mail which clogs her mailbox EVERY DAY.  She's ruined several shredders trying to keep up with the stuff.  Every envelope gets a once over because though she understands most of the scams out there, she worries she may miss the one sweepstakes announcement that is real.  To make matters worse, half of the calls or more she receives in a twenty-four hour period relate to the same thing.  I walked in on my first day to find her in a dueling discussion with a stranger trying to convince her she needed insurance to cover the million-dollar prize she was soon to collect.  That bothered her all day.  They need to reserve a special place in a Third-World prison cell for shysters like that.

But at least she's got Misty (and Misty's parents) to keep a close eye on her.  When I get home, my family is learning Canasta . . . according to Grandma Roxey's rules, which Grandma Opal says are the only ones she ever uses.  I believe her!   

A Little R&R

Methinks my ankles and knees, and probably that tricky spot in my right hip, will protest rather loudly tomorrow for today's fun.  But that's all right with me.  The adventure was well worth it.  Along with my brother and his wife and my fabulously fun teenage nephew, Isaac, I took a hike.  A moderate 4+ mile hike around Pinecrest Lake, which is part of a year-round nature-oriented resort nestled in the Sierra Nevadas, and only a two-hour drive from the Merced area where the lovely Sweigard Family resides.  We climbed boulders, skirted roots and protruding stones, picked our way down steep declines and trudged our way up a few inclines.  I snapped shots of flowers and trees and people and the bold blue lake itself. 

Though I should have resisted the urge, my need to take my turn at the front of the pack led to an ongoing footrace with said nephew.  Realistically, I knew of at least three good reasons why running along a multi-terrain trail might not be the best idea, but the high altitude, fresh air, and the sheer joy at being a part of this refreshing activity evidently overtook my common sense.  Sprained ankles, a cracked noggin, or a good old-fashioned tumble all come to mind.  I will I did manage to lead the way for our stalwart crew a few times, but I'm no match for a 14 year-old boy overflowing with youthful vigor.

The views were stunning, panoramic, the kind of generous visual spreads that is best done in the West.  Though the lush green beauty and rolling hills of Middle Tennessee hold a tender place in this nature-loving girl's heart, the striking stretches of landscape and magnificent vistas in places like California and Colorado, Alaska and Washington -- you get my drift -- manage to grip my heart and overtake my soul.  My camera performed admirably as it attempted to reflect back to me the splendor of the scenes I viewed on the miniature screen.  But really, one must simply BE there, in the moment, walking along the catwalk over the rushing dam, catching sight of the quick little lizards which dotted the path, hearing the telltale cry of the active osprey overhead, inhaling the mingling scents of blooming wildflowers and coniferous trees, can truly create the perfect mental snapshot.  I hadn't planned for this impromptu outing, but I sure got a great deal out of it.  

Twice I jumped into the cool but highly inviting waters of the lake.  Only a few minutes is needed to adequately numb the nerve receptors to the chill of mountain runoff waters. the temp is in the 60's, and then it's all good.  If time and circumstance would have allowed, swimming for hours might have been my very good thing (as Martha Stewart is fond of saying) for the trip.  Never have I seen water so azure in shade and clear in composition, even with the haze of tree pollen rippling along the surface of Pinecrest Lake.  Oh, how I longed for my husband to be near . . . I'd splash him a good one!

It was a glorious 24-hour period of outdoor activities, a boat ride, hanging out with my brother's family and his friends, getting to know my cousin, Randy, eating tri tip grilled to perfection, seeing a gorgeous gray fox, sipping Rose while reacquainting myself with the game of Spades, nibbling on Red Vines, falling asleep with my mouth open in the living room easy chair of the rented cabin in front of strangers and family alike, and just plain easing myself into a relaxed, totally stress-free state of being.  No technology as ATT could not penetrate the dense tree line all around us.  That meant an absence of Facebook posts, text messages, and multiple phone calls.  I'm alive and well, thank you very much!

It's midnight.  I need sleep.  Grandma Opal is expecting me later in this brand new July day.  For the next two days, I will be at her beck and call.  Oh, and on Wednesday, Miss Opal and Miss Gloria will be meeting Aunt Avis at a bakery where the best chocolate cake, EVER, is served.  It is with growing certainty that I state I will most likely fit quite well into that size 8 bridesmaid gown upon my return without any need of alteration.  But, I can say I fit in my 126 push-ups today with my hike.  I'm keeping up as best I can.

Good night to all.  I hugged my nephew many times today though he's not usually too awfully demonstrative in that sense.  I told him I missed hugs from my own son, his cousin.  Think of my blog as a hug to all of you as I sign off.    

Headed for the Hills

It's our nation's Independence Day, folks.  A happy and safe 4th of July to you all.

I've completed the backtrack trek to Merced, California from the hilly vineyard sprawl that is Napa, California.  Shifted from Brother Gary to Brother John.  Gone from sleeping in a creaky double bed in a very spare dorm room in an almost abandoned two-story building which once housed married nurses on the grounds of a sprawling state hospital facility, separated from my youngest brother by barbed-wire-topped fence and concrete buildings, to crashing on the comfy couch in the spacious ranch-style home with its airy decorative components and all the amenities once could ever desire, mere yards away from my younger brother in his own comfy sleeping quarters.  The contrast is severe.  The worlds-apart aspect of it all is an abrupt jump which takes my mind just a few sharp shakes of a lamb's tail to adjust. 

Switching gears without stripping gears.  That's a talent.  I'm fast learning how to finesse it all.  I'd like to take a moment to thank Starbuck's for it's role in assisting my transition.  Nod, wink, wink.  Long slow sip of soy caffe latte.

John's clicking ankle and knee joints behind me signal the need to hurry as we are preparing ourselves for an overnight trip to them thar' hills -- otherwise known as the Sierra Nevadas.  His wife and kids, along with a few friends and their families, are entrenched in a large cabin for the week.  It seems there is also a parade happening in a local town near there.  It's time to socialize, eat, celebrate, relax.  Yadda, yadda, yadda.  My dress is ironed and my face washed.  Time to head for the shower.  Yes, the SHOWER as opposed to the rusty water of the clawfoot bath which has been the source of my physical cleanliness for the past couple of nights.  (Is it possible to feel nostalgia this early in the trip over a dirty bathtub?)

So, dear readers, I must bid you farewell for now.  As I sign off, I ponder my biggest dilemma of this late morning: Jamba Juice or Starbuck's?  Hmmm.

P.S.  I really miss Gary.  But those few pounds of pizza and snack weight I'm doubtless carrying from our visits will sustain me until next Thursday and Friday.  Here's to an endless hike in the hills at some point in today's outing . . .

Mumm's The Word

I made it to the Mumm Winery out on the Napa Highway with 30 minutes to spare.  Brut Rose stands as my favorite in the sparkling wine category, and the Mumm label puts out a decently priced and 'florally' flavorful one which I've had a few times.  When I heard the vineyard was in this region and not too far from town, I was determined to at least pull into the driveway and snap a picture since I couldn't be there in time for the final 3PM tour of the day.  The drive, winding roads, sunny afternoon skies, and gloriously gorgeous terraced hills covered and dotted with grape vines from top to bottom and every conceivable space in between, was an experience in and of itself.  I couldn't keep a tally as to the number of estates which swept by.  So many styles of architecture; various sizes; simple and spectacular landscaping; textures of stucco and wood; diverse signs urging passers-by to stop for the day's tastings.  Just what one would expect of the Napa Valley.

My single glass of pink-tinged bubbly was every bit as refreshing as I'd hoped.  With the backdrop of foothills against the foreground of endless green waves of orderly vines, the location of the estate's tasting patio was sheer perfection as an oasis of rest and observation.  The umbrella-covered tables were small islands, each with their own small population of natives in the form of tourists and locals, all existing unto themselves even as their chatter joined the larger noise of the entire place.  One gentleman behind me was a bit too loud, a tad too smooth and smarmy, blathering on with too much effusiveness about his 13 years of marriage and 2 years of therapy and his vast experience which needed to be poured over the young couple at the table with him and his lady friend.  (The wife of 13 years is gone, having left him with just his vast experience.)  He lacked depth behind his words.  His airspace was filled with flat one-dimensional words which fell like stones on my innocent ears.  In order to impart meaning to his monotonous monologue, I began to take notes on him for later use.   The moment my pen hit the paper, he became fun.

Walking from my car to the courtyard upon first arriving, I scanned the horizon as I always do, searching for clouds and birds and anything of note in the expansive above and beyond.  A red-tailed hawk rode the air currents, supremely serene, drifting in and out of the line created by the meeting of blue sky with straw-colored hilltops.  He was unhurried (I have assigned a gender for the purposes of this blog).  Effortless in his motions.  His very presence seemed appropriate to the evolving languid theme of this California Friday afternoon.  It was of him that I thought as I sat in my chair, sipping tickly wine, beneath the umbrella which shaded me from the clear rays of a strong sun which was busy imparting its mellowness to crops of chardonnay and pinot noir.  More than any one thing in this day, I longed to be that suspended raptor.  To be less a being of the concrete-and-glass world and more a citizen of the wind. 

Hours and phone calls and half a grande iced soy caffe latte have passed.  The inner spring is unwinding.  Thoughts are coalescing.  The freedom to tie it all together with a common thread is upon me, and it's flippin' fantastic!  And now, here once more in 'my' corner of Starbuck's, I feel a momentary connection to the state of the hawk. 

I life my glass to such connections as those.  Here's to moments of the supremely serene, each and every one of us.

On This 'Starry' Night

How did I become this technology-infected Starbuck's-addicted modern woman in the space of roughly 7 months?  If you would have told me then that I'd find myself situated on a leather couch in the double-windowed corner of the famed coffee house on a busy intersection in Napa, California on a mild July day in 2010 -- iPhone charging on my laptop as I blog and Facebook after a momentous day in spirit and body -- I'd have poo-pooed you right off the farm!

Yet, here I do indeed sit.  Alternately replaying this day's events in my head and observing a minor drama just outside one set of those floor-to-ceiling windows.  I'll get to the day, but let's rehash this incident yet unfolding.  I'd gone outside after purchasing my $2 after-2PM-grande-iced-soy-chai-tea-latte.  Settled on a table with a single chair next to the drive-thru pullout.  An interesting sort, a man who may have indeed once resided in Gary's present digs, sat down on a bench behind me to enjoy his drink and peruse a newspaper.  I got down to the business of accessing the FREE wi-fi service at SB's which just became official today of all days!

A loud crash, sounding much like the accidental hitting of an opened car door on a neighboring parked car, interrupted my reverie.  Rude!  A BMW is spilling its contents, three burly crew-cut blonde dudes with open beer containers in their hands, a Styrofoam cooler which crashed into the blacktop and sent beer cans rolling, and a petite brunette gal in braids who looked like she had just returned from the beach.  She looks stressed.  The dudes look stupid drunk.  Now, the POLICE OFFICER who was walking by, ready to hit the food joint next door for a quick evening meal on his break no doubt, looked a bit perplexed.  But he quickly pulled it together and jumped right into investigating the Three Stooges aspect of it all.  The man behind me chatted on about it as did I for a bit.  An hour later, the officer and his radioed backup just issued the final citations and wrapped it up in a tidy law-enforcing bow.  The chatty, slightly off-center man left for awhile, wandering off through the adjacent parking lots.  However, he has returned, now sitting across from me with his previously abandoned newspaper, murmuring to himself and thumbing through the local headlines.  Methinks this is a regular haunt and hangout in his daily schedule.  Still, I'll keep an eye on him.

Diversion aside, this has been a monumental day.  It's been since October 2008 that I last saw Gary Wayne Hultgren, youngest of five brothers of mine.  Today, we reconciled that glaring fact.  All things considered, he's looking quite well.  Holding onto that little pot belly he worked so hard to gain while in the last months of his prison sentence; he's always been tall and skinny.  Weight won't stay in most places . . . so he is pleased to take it wherever he can get it.  There are a few more grays in the chin hairs, in the short crop atop his noggin.  The middle knuckle on his right hand looks pretty awful, swollen and misshapen, from a few run-ins with unbalanced individuals who hit first and think later.  I have my doubts about the veracity of the x-ray which showed no break.  Hairline fracture, maybe?

Years of visiting at the big bad state-run institutions has smoothed me into a seasoned veteran.  No longer nervous.  Not intimidated.  Able to chat it up with officers with ease.  Confident that any bumps in the road can be handled.  I lugged in the goodie bag of edibles.  Somehow I forgot the blackberries and strawberries in the rented red Toyota Camry, but we did not go hungry.  (I walked for TWO hours on the hospital ground to counter my food fest, in fact!)  Rainier cherries, reduced-fat original Pringles, In-n-Out burgers, with fries for Gary, 69% dark chocolate squares, mom's whole grain oatmeal-goodness bars, Red Vines -- the ONLY true red licorice candy, you misguided Twizzler fans hear me?!  Sarah said we needed Skittles Crazy Cores, so there was a large bag of colorful chewy candies present.  I did crunch on a carrot.  Water for me; one Pepsi and one Mountain Dew for the brother-man.  And, one vending machine cinnamon roll which one some random magazine taste test award from 2005 to 2009.  Oh, and lite microwave popcorn.  Friday's menu: bacon-banana pepper-mushroom pizza, salad, and lots of berries, washed down with a frozen chocolate cake I'm planning on getting at Raley's tomorrow morning.  (Gary was admiring such a confection at the next table over during our confab.)

Alarmed at my lack of solitaire skills, my well-schooled-in-the-solitary-arts sibling taught me a few versions of the game for future reference.  I almost wish I had a deck now for my squeaky-floored on-grounds dorm room this evening.  (It's rather uplifting to realize I'll be sleeping less than a quarter mile from him for the next two nights!) 

All of this and yet the real meat of the day happened in between bites and chews and swigs, before and after the Aces and Kings and heart and spades.  But all of that will have to come on The Reluctant Suburbanite blog as it's more cumbersome.  Already, I've pushed past my daily exercise on this blog.  I'm none too gifted in the short and sweet of writing.  Surprise, surprise! 

It was about as good a day as one can have at a state psychiatric facility.  Take it from me and mine.