FOREWORD: I would like to dedicate this blog to Ro, with whom I was accidentally swapped at birth, albeit twelve years apart, and for whom I will always be ready and willing to make a Princess Bed in order to bring her good cheer. You are likely my biggest blog fan (see pink roses for reference) and I will always love you like my little sis.
So, as you can see, I didn't die. I mean, I wasn't planning to die or trying to die, but I HAVE been AWOL (again) for a while, so I thought perhaps some of you were thinking (hoping) I was dead.
A lot has happened this summer, per the usual. We've been to the beach house twice. I trekked to Tennessee, inherited some dominatrix gear, and rafted the river with my sweet MT. My E moved away, my Ray launched her website, and I got stood up for a drink for the second year in a row by a good friend whom I was really looking forward to seeing. I inherited a plane, yelled at a preschool director, and gave up my hopes of moving to San Diego within the near future. Yeah. That hits the high points. Now you're caught up.
However, none of that was worthy of pulling me out of my blog avoidance and spurring me back into writing mode. It takes something monumental for that--something that entertains me and fulfills me so thoroughly that I can't help but share it with the world via my (incredibly awesome) written words.
Two nights ago, I was finally inspired (and chastised by Ro), to write again. It all started with the trashcan.
You see, Thursday morning is trash pickup. On Wednesday night, I make the rounds through the house--bathrooms, bedrooms, playroom, kitchen, etc.--gathering up everything that needs to go. I bag it up, take the can out of the garage, and walk it to the curb. (Side note: I am proud to announce that this week, the McPhail family produced two small bags of trash. Our recycling can, however, runneth over. We're saving the world, one oatmeal canister at a time.) I usually do this around twilight (I love that word, and not because of the stupid books), when the neighbors are out, sitting on porches and watching kids play, having post-dinner cocktails, tiki torches lit, unwinding as the world twirls by. It's routine. I'm a girl who is all about routine. This is how I roll. Routinely.
This past Trash Day Eve, as I was strolling out to the curb I noticed that the Dad across the street was sitting outside, drinking a beer with his brother-in-law, and watching his toddler play in the driveway. A perfectly normal evening. Except........hmmm......something was not quite right. I looked closer. Toddler was playing with a ride-on car, inherited from Sutt who had outgrown it. As he wandered along, he pushed the car with one hand, and in the other hand he clutched something weird. What was that? Hmmmm.....yes....I think it's..... a bra. Yes, indeed. He was carrying a bra. A largish- D-cup-ish, nude satin bra. Fascinated, I watched as he dragged the bra along the concrete, picking it up from time to time to shove it in his mouth and suck on it a little around his pacifier. It appeared to be a push-up, the kid had a death grip on it, and my curiosity was peaked.
Interested, I did what every normal neighbor would do. I stared for a while, then shouted across the street, "Hey [neighbor]. Did you know [Toddler] has got a bra?"
Neighbor took a swig of his Budweiser and wiped off his mouth. Then he sighed. "Yeah, it's his security blanket. He doesn't have a Blankie, he has a bra. He takes it everywhere."
Silence all around.
When my children were little, they had lots of things to which they were attached. Belly had Bun-Bun (a pink bunny/blanket that Ya put in her NICU bassinet when she was born), Green (a monkey/blanket), Roberta (a pink gorilla from her Papaw), and various other items. Sutt had a stuffed Buzz and Woody, Curious George, and a beagle (stuffed) that he named Power Ranger. They both had pacifiers. Nobody ever had a bra. Or any other kind of lingerie, just to be fair. At least, not to my knowledge.
After a moment of consideration, I yelled back to Neighbor, "You know this doesn't bode well for his teenage years, right?"
Another swig of Bud, "Yep. We're counting on some trouble."
[Toddler] squealed and shook his bra in the air.
I said it before, I'll say it again.