One of the last times I went to church with the Daddy was to a Good Friday service. The Mama scored big that day as she not only got the Daddy to go with her, but me. I don't know how she did it. Maybe I didn't even sulk as I drove them to church. More than likely I did daydream through the service. That is, until the Daddy caught my attention. It was a struggle for his old bones to do all the physical activity that takes place during a Catholic mass, especially at the longer Good Friday service. You stand, sit, and kneel a lot.  I don't think the Daddy realized he was protesting out loud. I still wonder if God and I were the only ones who heard him. Stand. Sit. Kneel. "Shit." Sit. Stand. Kneel. "Fuck." Kneel. Stand. "God damn." Sit. Stand. Sit. Kneel. "Shit. Fuck. God damn." The Husband loves this story. After all, what's not to like: An old man swears in church. How I miss the Daddy.

My birthday was a couple months of ago. It was a delightful day, spent wandering with the Husband. One of the many highlights of the day was a package from Jenn, a dear long-time friend. Many years ago we worked together in a community-based nonprofit in San Francisco. She  developed on-the-job-training jobs for at-risk youth, while I counseled them about staying in school. Jenn and I had a lot of fun moments within our serious ones. She could get me to do things I would not consider doing, such as buying a disco dress in all its femme fatal glory. Not just once, but twice. And, then there was that time we were walking back from some serious moment, talking about non-serious things as we passed by the panhandlers, street musicians, and the folks talking into objects before there were cellphones on Market Street. We stopped in front of a wig store and gazed at the display of gigantic Barbie doll heads sporting long and short hairdos. "I wonder how I'd look in a long blon

Molly the kitty Cat and I never know what we're going to see in the Mama's backyard. The other day, I shared with you the roses . Today, uhm,  the apple trees in their naked splendor.

Unless otherwise stated, all words and images © by Su-sieee! Mac Warning: It's graphic today. Leaking things. Under the car. Around the base of the toilet. Under the water heater.   Leaking bodies. From the gut. Norovirus. Postmenopausal bleeding. Aaaaaaaaaaaack. This will all stop. Eventually. Hopefully, sooner. Not later.

When we meet up with friends, they eventually ask about the Mama. They've come to expect a doozy of a response about the tiny, not-so-frail 90ish gardener.  For example, one time I replied:  We were gone 90 minutes to do errands. Only 90 minutes. Do you know what she did while we were away? She whacked off the tops of the banana plants. With her machete. Ba-dum-bump. Tishhhhhh. And then there was the time I got to tell our friends this story. We were gone most of the day. We came home to find that the Mama had pruned the apple tree next to the small shed. "Did you use the ladder?" I asked. "Only my small one," she said. "You'll have to prune the top. I couldn't reach the branches." I looked at the tree. I couldn't figure how she got the middle branches without climbing the taller ladder. "How did you get those middle branches?" "Oh," said the Mama. "I stood on the roof of the shed." Ba-dum-bump. Tis