The Preacher Calls on Sunday

My dad calls, because we have not spoken since Christmas.  He asks what I’m doing and I tell him and I hear the surprised hesitation in his voice.  But he doesn’t ask and I appreciate that he doesn’t.  He tells me about his day, about climbing back up into the pulpit to fill in for a friend, and about a church lunch and the Cardinals and on and on and I want to get back to what I’m doing, to be off the phone with him, and I can tell by his longer and longer pauses that he knows I’m looking to go.

But I can’t quite bring myself to tell him “goodbye.”  His voice is low and tired and it scares me.

But he says nothing alarming.  He doesn’t apologize either, but his calling is his way of reaching back to me, to try to make things okay between us without him having to admit any wrong doing.

And later, I call him back, and I ask if he’s okay and he says yes, though it still doesn’t sound like it, and we make plans to fix my porch light the next time he’s down.

Ken Whitehouse Needs Some Help

Mary Mancini, who has a lovely and poetic name, interviewed Enoch Fuzz and StephenFotopulos today.  And Ken Whitehouse.

You could write a book or a poem with words like “Mary Mancini,” “Enoch Fuzz” and “Stephen Fotopulos” in it.

But “Ken Whitehouse”?

No.  Clearly, the man needs a nickname or a better first name.  “William Whitehouse?”  “Ken ‘The Donut Killer’ Whitehouse?”  ” Yes We Ken Get to the Whitehouse?”

I don’t know.  Something.

In Which I Complain

That the longer I sit here, the more sore I become.  My back hurts.  My neck hurts.  My arm hurts.  My thumb hurts and I didn’t even hurt my thumb in the fall.  I’m convinced it’s just hurting because it doesn’t want to be left out of the aching.

And what will I do with my chair?  Jim Voorhies, you seem to be magic.  Can you turn a spindle?  Anyway, I’m bummed by the loss of my chair.  I can remember as a little girl sitting under the dining room table playing with my little circle people on those chairs.  I did homework on those chairs.  I stood on those chairs to change lightbulbs.  We made forts out of blankets and pillows and those chairs.  I shake my fist at you, cruel fate.

An Open Letter to Pith in the Wind

Dear Pith,

I love your new design so much that I wrote this little poem about it.

Oh Pith, I delight in your new design

Look, it’s so crisp and clean and so refined

It’s the best thing on these intertubes

But Hargrove’s still not getting near my boobs.

That’s right, Pith, I love your new design so much I whipped out the pentameter.  I’m willing to bet money that Jeff Woods isn’t writing you poems in vaguely iambic pentameter.  Just saying.

Anyway, I have a few suggestions that I thought I’d pass along (No Depression, you might could listen up to a few of these, too).

1 (and most important): Include the full post in your feed.  I love you but it’s annoying bordering on ignorable when I only have a few lines of text in my reader (or none at all, No Depression!).  You don’t want to be ignorable (especially not after awesome, deeply insightful posts like this one.)

2: When you link to someone, your link should open in a new window, not in the same window.  You want your reader to have a little positive reinforcement–she reads you.  She clicks on the link.  She reads that.  And, if only to close your tab (or window) she has to come back to you.

3: We’re all on the same page that the ‘airplane’ thing is a quaint joke, right?

4: Ha, there is no four!  There was barely a three!  I love the new design.  (Though, in all fairness, I am not a designer, so, in reality, it may suck balls, just for the sake of honesty.)

Yours,

Aunt B.

After Last Night’s Dinner

The cat is still traumatized.  The dining room chair is in pieces on the floor and I am riddled with sore spots.  The chair thing isn’t that interesting, just at one moment I was at eye-level with the people at the table and the next minute I was at eye-level with the dog and I was tipsy enough to find it hilarious.

But the cat thing… It’s probably not that funny in the telling, but imagine.  You’re at my house and all evening the cat has been strutting around all, “Hey babe.  You might not know it, but I’m a pretty big deal around here.” And then you don’t hear from him for a while and FWOOSH the cat streaks around the outer edge of the room with what looks like a bag stuck to his tail, POW through the living room and then he vanishes.  We all look at each other and start laughing.

Time passes and there’s no more shenanigans from the cat so we figure all is well and then FWOOSH he comes by again, the thing still stuck to him.  So, now two of us set off to find him and free him, which is no small task.  But finally, it’s obvious that he’s under the front of the Butcher’s bed.  One of us goes to one end, the other goes to the other, and there’s a crinkle noise and a terrible hiss and he is freed from the one-touch wrap.

And then he hid under the bed for the rest of the evening, too freaked out to come out again.  I felt so bad for him because he had been all Joe Cool until that point.