I'm here.

Sorry, I was lost. I was delayed, I was waylaid. Stop me if you think you've heard this one before. Har.


I've been getting frustrated with social media lately and the blog is seeming way more appealing. How's that for vagueness? But I think we all have these frustrations when it comes to communicating, don't we? Aren't we all misheard and misunderstood at some point? It's part of modern life and I can totally deal with it...but maybe it's time my one-sided conversation resumes.

Phoning it in series

Phone pictures from the not too distant past and the timely present. Letting the future happen every day.


^^Autumn leaf jumping.


^^Playing with Kittens.


^^Hiking to waterfalls.


^^Asked for the Macklemore, got the Macklemore.


^^Eating french onion soup with extra cheese and extra bread.


^^This begging face.


^^Christmas gingerbread disaster.


^^Christmas break travels to SF.


^^Jungle in the Conservatory of Flowers.


^^Sleeping innnnnnnnn.


^^Reading with dad.


^^New Year times.


^^Good news. It's not a tumah.


^^Mawwidge.


^^Photo booth fun.


^^Sisters.


^^Friends.

I think that about catches us up.

There was a thief

Last night we found out what we feared to be true. An animal that is not ours has been sneaking into our laundry room through the pet door and eating the cats' dry food. We first thought it was the neighbor's cat Frankles, who is a pretty charming cat, so handsome, friendly and would absolutely never, ever pee in a toaster. I couldn’t even get that mad about old Frankles skimming off our stash, but then we started finding the dry food bin tipped over and sometimes open. Our cats have been spoiled by wet food lately, so breaking into the dry food would be so passé for them. "Dry food. Really?" They’d say. "Sprinkle on some brewer's yeast and maybe we'll talk."

I started to worry that a raccoon or an opossum was coming in. Nah! I've got dogs. The dogs would let me know if a wild critter got into the house. Wrong, wrong, so very wrong. I forget I have Boston Terriers, the most un-terrier-like of all the terriers. They are so unlike their fellow Rat, Jack Russell, West Highland and Bull terriers, that the American Kennel Association puts Bostons not in the Terrier Group for classification purposes, but in vast catch-all group of Non-Sporting. As in, don’t get these dogs if you want a sporty pup. They’re bred as companion dogs, sleep on the couch dogs, burrow into the foot of your bed dogs. They get winded on long runs, they fetch a ball back to you up to ten times before collapsing in a fit of snorts in the grass. They’re the best dogs ever, but they will not solve your vermin problem. I should know this. The only things my dogs catch are fleas and foul cases of flatulence.

So last night while we were watching TV, some vermin came in and ate all of the cat food in the bowls, drank all of the cats’ water, then drunk on their spoils, tipped the dry cat food bin and made a hasty retreat. After assessing the scene, I went out back to see if Frankles the neighbor cat was anywhere in sight. I didn’t see him but I heard something scampering up our neighbor’s tree. Then Leon spotted a huge raccoon in that tree looking back at us with glowing green eyes. It was horrifying! Grab the airsoft gun! Get a flashlight! I was ready for battle, but we had no arms and no batteries. So I had to just sit and stare it down until it left. We secured the pet door and I washed the cats’ bowls in soap and hot water. The worst part is that some of the wash water splashed into my eyes, so now I’m probably dying of rabies. Thanks raccoon. If I catch that beast in my house it’s getting Wustoffed.

What's the price?

How much does this cost? If you ask this, they say, you can't afford it. I don't know if that's true or not. Lots of times I don't ask how much something is if it's not labeled. Probably about half the time because I'm passively punishing a seller for not merchandising their widgets well enough and I refuse to buy their goods. The other half of the time, I figure well, I probably really can't afford it anyway.

What about life? If you ask what the price is, would you really want to know? Would you pay for it? It's impossible to know and it's a dark place to visit, but it's a question that's been weighing on me this week. We lost a dear family member recently. I hate using the word lost like this, like he's wandering around Denio's, bewildered, but every other word that can be used to describe someone's sudden, tragic death seems just as lousy. My cousin was a big deal, a big joker, he laughed big raucous laughter, he was the big grill master. He was Santa for the kids at Christmas. Anyone with that big of a presence in a family is going to leave a big hole when they're gone. That's what we have now, a huge crater of full of missing. We're a bunch of loose ends. The cost is due and we're all paying.

I look at my kid's face, his precious, perfect little face and I feel boundless love for life. What's the price of that and will I ever have to pay for it?

[Last Night]
Ira: "Mom. These are the best butter noodles you've ever made!"
Me: "I'm so glad you like them! I love to hear nice things about my cooking. I feel it in my heart!"
Ira: "Mom. These are worth more than gold."

Using Ira's price scale, if the perfect butter noodles are worth more than gold, then life is worth more than gold times infinity.