Making up for lost posts...

My mother-in-law equivalent stayed with us from Monday to Saturday, and I must say, all went remarkably well. Linda took the week off to squire her mother about town, and they found ways to entertain themselves every day. In fact, they had a grand time of it--so grand, they knocked themselves out. By mid-week, naps were added to each day's itinerary.

Thursday night after work I came home to a quiet house--at 6:00! Even the dogs were napping, for pity's sake.

My favorite vision was to return home after work to find them playing dominoes. Dominoes! Here's what I learned: What do you do with a 79-year-old woman when you've run out of ideas? Play dominoes. Fun for the entire family!

Anyway, all didn't go completely smooth, as you can imagine. The trip to Long Island was a little fraught, as we got lost in Bridgeport, CT trying to find the ferry to Port Jefferson, L.I. Bridgeport roads are in a state of permanent construction, in my experience, and this construction seems to require that most helpful signs are removed. Any helpful signage that remains gets placed as far from a driver's range of vision as to be virtually useless.

The best example of the Bridgeport approach to signage? That was on the return trip home. We had followed two signs for "95 North" once we got off the ferry, only to see no other guidance as to where to turn. You know why? Because the last sign for the turn to "95 North" was placed on the ramp leading to said highway--one could only see it once one had driven onto the ramp. George Orwell would be so proud...

But hey--though we had a scuffle or two, we survived. And Linda's mother made it to her destination safe and sound, leaving only the scent of mothballs behind (you have no idea). Happy trails to you!

After we bid Linda's mother a fond farewell, we had many hours to kill until our ferry reservation. Linda had the wonderful idea that we take a nice side trip to Cherry Grove on Fire Island (where the lesbians are, though gay boys are certainly there in number, too). The day was hazy, but it was marvelous to hear and see the ocean, and watch all those lovely gay boys and girls frolic in the sand. Made us a little wistful--we have each spent many summer days there during our NYC days (separately and together) and we realized there's no place like it for the likes of us. Sigh.

We may have to return, even if our beach bunny days are far behind us. We shall see....

Lastly, I have an idea for a new bit floating around in my noggin', based on my attempt to find compassion in my heart for the homophobic among us. It's based on my own experience as a drunk lass, which is a source for much of my material, don't you know.

What I 'm working on: The poor homophobe who, realizing he's going to be late for his terrible job at the big box store (which he took after the factory in town moved operations to India) first wakes up and says, "Damn homos!"

He then hops on his bike, which he's riding because his truck is broken down. His son usually fixes it for him, but he's been re-deployed to Iraq for the third time, and isn't around. The bike gets a flat tire, and the poor homophobe says, "Damn homos!"

He finally gets to work, and is called in to an employee meeting, where they announce that because of rising health care costs, employees are going to pay hundreds more for their insurance. The homophobe's response? You got it: "Damn homos!"

What could this possibly remind me of? When I was living in Chicago. I moved there right after graduation, and my drinking took off big-time there. A coworker got me started on hard liquor after she noticed I was drinking beer--"No more college drinks for you, young lady--you're in the city now!"

Anyway, I came home one night from work, tired to the core. As was often the case, I had gone into work hungover, and had made a solemn promise to myself that I was going to go to bed early that night, to try to repair and restore my poor carcass from the excesses of the night before.

Problem was, I came home and discovered an almost-full bottle of vodka in my kitchen.

Well, if you know anything about alcoholics, you can guess what happened. Or maybe not.

Suddenly, it was morning, and I woke up with an empty bottle of vodka on my nightstand and a strange man in my bed.

My first thought? "Damn vodka!" Nope. "Damn Chicago!"

I moved to New York City not terribly long after that.

So that's my story. Is it funny? Tragic? Tragi-comic? Time will tell.