It ain't easy bein' cheesy

Okay, first an observation: Today, for Earth Day, I threw away more garbage in my office wastebasket than I have in months. (Normally I have a single toothpick or a single tissue, maybe for a two-day period. Today I had paper cups and a banana skin and a whole bunch of stuff. Just ironic that it's Earth Day.)

Anyway, on to the "subject" of this post. The dollar store here in town (not the chain one, the local one--yes, we are so cheap we even go to off-brand dollar stores) has this AMAZING cheese-flavored popcorn. The Husband has taken to buying it five bags at a time. (And these are not single-serving bags, mind you.) It is our guilty pleasure. We are addicted to the stuff. I'm sure it's one of the top ten unhealthy things that's still legal to sell as "food." Our Tuesday ritual has been to eat this cheese corn and watch American Idol. Last week, tragically, the dollar store was OUT of our beloved cheese corn, so we had to watch the Mariah Carey tribute popcorn-free. This week we stocked up. I cannot wait. I brought work home tonight. All the pages are going to have these bright orange fingerprints on them when I get back to work in the morning.

Sure, the future leader of the free world may be being decided in Pennsylvania right now, but for me it's all about the cheese corn. More people vote for AI than for President anyway.

The Valley of the Shadow of Death

Sunday's sermon at church was on the Twenty-third Psalm. Appropriate, since I seem to be surrounded by death.

First it was my dad's cousin. It was unexpected. She was much younger than my dad. But I'd only met the woman once or twice in my life, so I wasn't too emotionally invested.

Next was my uncle. He had been dying slowly for years. Parkinson's, I think. Tragic, but not unexpected.

Now it's my cousin. He was a narcotics agent and apparently his lungs are like Swiss cheese from years of breathing in meth fumes without a respirator. The doctors gave him 48 hours, but that was four days ago. We're not particularly close, but it is someone of my generation.

They say these things come in threes. But then again, aren't people supposed to die in winter instead of spring?

How long does hurt last?

My dog, Heidi, died over 20 years ago. I still dream about her. In fact, I had a dream about her Sunday morning. It still makes me cry.

The first time I cried over her I was seven years old. We moved to an apartment for a few months when my dad had a long-term work assignment in another town. Heidi had to go live with my aunt and uncle on their farm. I remember standing at the art table in first grade sobbing.

I was a neglectful pet owner, as children often are. I didn't play with her every day. I sometimes even forgot to feed her. Yet, for some reason, I've always missed her when she wasn't around--even when she hasn't been around longer than she was here in the first place.

I'm not sure why this little ball of black fur has had such a powerful impact on me. I don't dream about relatives who've passed. I don't dream about dead goldfish, or our other dog, or the cat.

Maybe it was the trauma. She was so sick at the end. Dad made me make the decision to put her down. But I don't think so. My dreams are never about the end of her life, and she had that power over me back in first grade when she was still young and frisky.

I miss her. I guess I always will.

Sisters are doin' it for themselves

So, we get home from vacation and have company. My sister has been here for a week. She left this morning. We had a lot of fun showing her all the tourist sites. She got to experience pretty much the full variety of weather here: rainy, foggy, sunny but cold--that's about it.

I ordered a new battery for the camera when we got back from Vegas, so I took a TON of pictures while she was here.

That's about it for now.