Adventure Mom

Thanks and Giving Part 2  [continued from Part 1, which you really should read first before diving into this stream-of-consciousness-piece-of-Vegemite sandwich] Separation is hard, especially when you're the one sitting alone on the brown leather lounge suite, drinking Pinot Gris while watching Extreme Makeover, followed by David Bowie singing "Fashion" on MTV. I ended the trash TV trilogy four minutes too late, transfixed on a music video so hilariously disturbing, I was compelled to search for it later that night on You Tube (do NOT look for Duck Sauce. There. I've warned you). As I write, Pete's spending his second unscheduled night in the hinterlands of the North Island (a place called Hawera). He was training a student to fly when low clouds moved in. They're grounded until weather improves. I miss him. A lot. The voice in my head says, "See? It's not gonna be easy. This is a tiny taste of the bitter partition potion you're brewing." T

Thanks + Giving  Part One I didn't mean to leave you and never return. I told you I'd be back. And I will. It's just taking me longer than I'd imagined to shake the wanderlust/settle in a new place/extricate myself from the new place/work my way around the world. I fantasize about you. I imagine your warmth like summer sunshine glowing against my skin. You comfort me. You give me space and time to be me. I imagine opening the door and seeing you again, a tinge of excitement on my face. You're not fancy. Some might say you're old-fashioned. Dependable. I can rely on you, day or night. Even your movements comfort me. It's the sameness – around and around, over and over again. I'm embarrassed I've forgotten your name. Is it Kenmore? Or Maytag? It's one of those, I'm sure. You must be at least 15 years old. I'm unconcerned about your age. It's performance I seek, my beloved. My clothes dryer. Yes, I've missed my dryer. I never

One Month Later- Wringing the Romance I'm going to tell you how to wring the romance from a seven-month-old relationship, much the same as you'd wring sweat from an old sock. Move in together. Follow a two-month housing search with a two-week move-in process. Help hoist a 50-inch television. Stand on the stairs in front of a battered brown wooden dresser, listening to your Beloved say, "A little more to the left. Now, to the right." Examine your Soul Mate's stuff collected during 45 years of (mostly bachelor) life: a half-dozen duvet innards; enough old sheets and towels to outfit a 1960's era no-tell motel; stacks of paper, books, a wobbly office chair, broken vacuum cleaner... odds and ends that could one day prove useful, but more likely, are destined for the tip (dump). Start hanging your Adorable One's laundry on the line (because you lack a staple of American living, a clothes dryer). Note the college-style collection of tees: a brown shirt with