Aqua

Both the teardrop and the tempest are made of water, making it the most yielding and most destructive force on Earth. -- Fiona Paul, Venom

Picture copyright 2012, 2013, Mediocria Firma. Used with gratitude.

Barbed Poem

A picture is a poem without words. - Horace

Picture copyright 2013, Mediocria Firma. Used with gratitude.

Dirt

Yesterday, after she had placed the chicken parmesan in the oven to warm, and he had parked the Suzuki and freshened up after a day spent four-wheeling with Offspring the Third, Herself and Beloved Husband found that they had a half hour to spare before the arrival of long-term Acquaintance and Spouse for dinner.  Herself and Beloved Husband enjoyed the time by planting a few more annuals in the pots in the front yard. It was nice to be outside with the flowering ocotillo and the fragrant yellow bush and the newly leafy trees.  Spring is quite literally in full bloom.

They were finishing just as Acquaintance and Spouse rolled up and parked in front of the house.  Herself planted the last flower, and, mindful of Beloved Husband's request to save any leftover earth from the pots to be distributed into the pots that were slightly less full, inquired of him:

"I have a little bit of dirt left over, did you want me to save it?"

Long-term acquaintance promptly corrected her:

"SOIL."

Herself let the word hang in the air -- a tiny supercilious reprimanding cloud.

What reply was warranted? She knew, of course, that only one response would do:

Absolutely none at all.

She asked Beloved Husband again, gesturing to the small bin:

"Did you want me to save this?"

He responded in the negative, and so Herself disposed of it. She collected the trash and removed her gardening gloves, and into the house they all went. And the evening went on.

Behold, Herself's trifling victory.

I shall use the words I choose.

What A Day

Twenty-four years ago today, Herself turned in her Senior Thesis, and then went for a walk with Beloved Husband -- who, at the time, was Beloved Boyfriend -- across grass and under trees, where they eventually sat.  It was then that he proposed, and she, of course, accepted.

It was quite a banner day.

Broccoli

When Herself was in graduate school, the dining hall associated with the school was not open on weekends, and so the students fended for themselves.  There were many food trucks parked in various strategic locations around the city, and they were frequented by the students.  The most delicious wonton soup ever could be procured at a truck just a few blocks from the dormitories.  It had fresh bean sprouts floating at the top of the take-home container. Tasty.

Street vendors selling fresh fruits and vegetables also set themselves up on sidewalks.  They would weigh out the merchandise on hanging scales before putting it into crisp paper bags.  Herself would peruse among the vendors to obtain some broccoli and other ingredients. She would stir-fry everything in a minuscule electric frying pan in her dorm room.  Tasty.

Even all these years later, the smell of broccoli reminds her of that beautifully fresh broccoli and the tiny electric pan.

Rare Bird

Amicus verus est rara avis.

Picture copyright 2013, Mediocria Firma. Used with gratitude.

Senior Prom

Offspring the Second's Senior Prom is rapidly approaching.  Herself was not sure whether or not he would attend this event:  he is an old soul, and has often eschewed the more pedestrian events of high school.  Slightly surprisingly, he seems to be pleased to attend prom. Appropriate vestments have been obtained and accessorized according to his unique sense of style.  He is going with friends. It appears that he is serving in the Prom Court as a representative of a student club for which he is president; the composition of the Court and associated individuals is rather a bit of a mystery to Herself, whose high school was far too small for such prom intricacies.

Herself is happy for Offspring the Second.  She hopes that his Senior Prom generates some fond memories upon which he can look back in the years to come.  One of her greatest delights:  to see the Offspring happy. Lovely people they are, deserving of joy and mirth and contentment.

Herself attended her own Senior Prom. Her escort was an earnest, polite and humorous young man.  They went together because Herself's friends knew Herself had no date, and her escort's friends knew he had no date, and so, all the friends connected the dots and provided the phone numbers for the necessary conversations to happen and arrangements to be made. It was a tiny bit awkward, partly due to Herself's difficulties in making small talk, as well as due to the fact that Herself was occasionally distracted by a former boyfriend -- who had broken up with Herself only the week before -- who spent what seemed like an interminable amount of time French-kissing his new girlfriend on the dance floor.  Ew.

(We've mentioned Herself's Senior Prom a bit before, here.  To recap:  Herself and the ex-boyfriend in question had a clear-cut difference of opinion: whereas he felt that the three weeks they had dated should have been considered sufficient time for Herself to have sex with him, Herself felt differently. And so, he moved on quickly, after proffering her some advice about her needing to 'put out' if boys were ever to be interested in her. Herself was offended and, truth be told, deeply hurt at the time. Alas.)

What is it about these Teenage Milestone Events such as Prom?  Why are they built up to be such tremendously important occasions? Are they? They are so very critical at the time, and yet, twenty-eight years later (how can it possibly be so long ago?), Herself's own Prom is just a minuscule drop in the bucket of Life.  It's an interesting perspective -- the view of Prom from the heart of Middle Age.

How time flies.