This is what the Husband, the Mama, and I wrote on our 2011 Christmas letter (Yep. We're that kind of people.): The gang of. . .<our address> has expanded to four. Mr. Cat, aka Mr. L. Gatto Cat, aka Mr. Lionel G. Cat adopted us around Thanksgiving Day. A stray budding YA kitty, he suckered us with his cuteness and friendliness. Mr. L. Gatto Cat left as suddenly as he arrived into our lives. It was almost like he had been on vacation and we had been his vacation destination. He was given a winter shelter. He was fed topnotch food—no grain fillers. And, he had attentive humans to pet and play with him when he was not sleeping. Mr. Cat cat slept a lot, I tell you what. I never knew that cats sleep so much. We had cats when I was a kid. Lots of cats. There were always at least three or four of them wandering outside in the backyard.  During the winter, they slept in the garage. Almost daily, they liked to slip into the house when anyone went through the door to the garage.

This is my rough sketch for the cartoon that I want the Husband to draw for my future obituary. Death is sporting a Hawaiian shirt. Me, a flouncy skirt. "Hello. What's your name?" asked the young man. "Death," said 18-year-old me. It was a late afternoon nearly 50 years ago. My answer, of course, gave him a start. To this day, I have no idea why he even walked over to the swings where I was sitting, the only person in the park until he and his friends drove in and parked near the bathroom.  Our paths crossed once before when I was in first grade and he in second. In high school, I perceived him as being one of the "wild and tumble" guys. And, wouldn't you know it, he eventually would become a pastor. Instead of making a quick getaway, the future pastor sat on the other swing next to me. Not really what I wanted. He seemed sincerely concerned that I had called myself Death . He probably thought I was suicidal or maybe psychotic. Far from

The Mama is the other significant character who will grace this blog from time to time. Here's a look into her nature. "They ask how old I am!" the Mama exclaims. Sometimes she says it out of the blue, a few hours after having come from a party. Or, it may come a day to two later, after she has finally let the question get to her. The question that she thinks is so rude to ask: "How old are you now?" Her standard answer, "I am 100 years old."After asking her age, they (the people who haven't seen her in awhile) then want to know how she stays so healthy (translation: not dead).  Her answer, which I'm really not sure she says so sincerely: "I eat rice. Rice does not make your face wrinkle." The Mama reads the newspaper daily, as well as listen to the evening news, and sometimes the noon news. "They showed Goodrich (Gingrich). He was crying," she said, with a note of of amusement. "I have never seen a politician cry

Neither the Husband nor I are pack racks. Not much, that is. He still has one or two boxes of college textbooks, and I have a box, or two, of research from the mid-70s about Filipinos in the United States for a book idea that has been on the back burner since, well, at least 1979, the last time I was living full time in the hometown. I think we—the husband and I—have been very good about consolidating and downsizing our belongings since we moved in together way back when. I came with 40+ years of personal stuff, both single and married stuff, along with some of the pre-me things that belonged to the deceased husband.  He, the Husband, came with his 40+ years of personal stuff, both single and married stuff, along with some of the pre-him things that belonged to his deceased wife. I had lived in a one-bedroom apartment, while he had resided in a studio.  Together, we moved into a three-bedroom house with a big basement. Surprisingly, we had no problem filling in the space. Quickly,

A glorious 2012 to you, dear readers! Slowly, slowly, you shall meet the characters in my life—past and present. Today, I introduce the Husband. Some of you already know him from my previous blogs. We are perfectly imperfect together. Click here for an example, then come back to find out how we met. How We Met He, the future husband, was standing in my carport, as his friend, the son of my deceased husband, was circling the motorcycle that his father had given him. He, the future husband, wore a red plaid jacket over his jeans. His curly reddish blonde hair was just barely out of control. His beard was neatly full. He, the future husband, was staring at a black box the size of a TV remote control in his hand. I imagined him saying, "Beam me up, Scotty." I also thought, Pothead . And, so it began. Nearly 17 years ago. The Husband writes a blog about cartooning. You can check him out at Arrmac's Blog . © 2012 Su-sieee! Mac. All rights reserved.