alison ate my brain

And I want it back, eventually.

Let's talk music, shall we?

Random 10:
1) Eric Clapton -- Let it Grow
2) Pat Metheny -- Are You Going With Me?
3) Uncle Bonsai -- Just One Angel
4) Billy Joel -- River of Dreams
5) Pod Dog Pondering -- Complicated
6) Sonia Dada -- Planes and Satellites
7) Dire Straits -- Far Away
8) Joseph Arthur -- Dear Lord
9) Bobby McFerrin -- Medicine Man
10) Janah -- Temple of My Body

What is the total amount of music files on your computer?
Nuttin’ honey. Oh, you mean on our server? Something like 35 gig, 7500 songs.

The last CD I bought was:
Soul Coughing -- Ruby Vroom

What is the last song you listened to before this message?
Seal -- Where There’s Gold

Write down five songs you often listen to or that mean a lot to you:
1) Beethoven’s 9th: the Chorale. All I need to hear is “Freude, schöner Götterfunken / Tochter aus Elysium / Wir betreten feuer-trunken / Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!” and I am lost to all but pure divine beauty.
2) Earth Wind & Fire -- Shining Star
3) Van Morrison -- Enlightenment
4) Bruce Springsteen -- 4th of July, Asbury Park
5) Mike Scott -- Bring ‘em All In

Who are you going to pass this on to:
My Deadhead friend Triskele, because she hasn’t been tortured lately.



And, hey, I told you I was a musical retard, so no laughing.

brother of son of aw crap

Omigod, check it out. I should have figured this out!

The Master Gardener class is filled with mostly middle-aged women, as well as several older gents in the landscaping business. I wasn't the oldest, ugliest, fattest, or least interesting. (Yeah. Grade school stuff. Sorry. I can't help it. I just don't bother fighting it anymore.)

I know it might be difficult for me to finish all the requirements for certification (i.e., volunteer time) so I signed up right away for the "coffee committee" which means I have to get there early each day and stay a little later to clean up. And it also means 2 hours a week for all of February and March - yikes! February is next week! - of "other" volunteer hours. I need 30 of those, and 45 of the "Big Three" which I cannot begin until after I pass the exam in April. The Big Three are 1) telephone hotline, 2) diagnostic plant lab, and 3) tick lab.

Guess who signed up for coffee committe with me? Yup, you guessed it. Every single one of the landscaping guys. I'll probably be jockeying with them all winter for hours.

Anyway, I can do this. I'm excited about the possibility of finishing and obtaining the certification, even if we end up leaving here, at which point I'd have to do it all over again wherever I end up. But I haven't finished anything in a damned long time. (Okay, that's the old speak. I finished up Mom's estate. I finished taking care of her. I finished getting this house into the kind of shape we require. But the difference is, these were things that had to be done, and not my choice. This course, this goal, is my choice, and something just for me.)

I'm pumped. See you early Thursday morning, over coffee duty, guys! Then it's off to Port Townsend and a future unknown, as indeed, it always is.

not that I'd ever even consider it

After I re-read my last post, it dawned on me just how easily I could poison hobbitt. I just told him that lunch was a "creative surprise" and he ate it.

Oh, wait. Now I distinctly remember he didn't take a single bite out of the sandwich before I did. Hmmmm. Maybe he's on to me.

leftover hell

Note to self: London broil "salad" sandwiches are a very, very bad idea, and unlikely to ever be anything other than a very, very bad idea. Regardless of the actual amount of mustard.

It's been snowing and I can't stop cooking. Last night I just had to whip up a batch of beer-batter fried chicken. There was already a big bowl of cole slaw, a large hunk of beef, special mac & cheese, meatloaf, and Mexican chicken chowder in the fridge, as well as a couple of quarts of split pea soup in the freezer and a loaf and a half of Roquefort bread on the counter to be eaten.

I'm not overeating any of this stuff, to my credit. But jeez louise! And frying that chicken last night was really smart considering that I'd just cleaned the overhead light grilles and didn't want all the noise of the Jenn-Aire downdraft vent. (I can at least soothe myself by knowing that actually frying on my cooktop isn't as stupid as having installed those light grilles in the first place, which is an atrocity committed by the former owners of this house and their combined lack of taste or discernment.) Eh, well, they're at least clean enough from the other day that all I'll likely have to do is spray on some orange cleaner and rinse it off.

For the moment I'd better get moving out there through the snow with Inti, and try to get that sandwich as far down my digestive tract as possible, lest I get to remember it later.

son of aw crap

In about a half-hour I have to leave for the orientation of my Master Gardener's class, which means I'll have to meet and greet about 70 people from Ocean County, half of whom are mentors. I look forward to meeting Vandella, who is mine. I've spoken with her via phone a few times.

But I have great trepidation about being in a crowd of strangers that large, and about being in school again, two days a week for the next three months. Van tells me that she took the class about five years ago, after she retired, and not to worry since she must have been out of school longer then, than I have been by now.

Yeah, but that doesn't mean her brain turned to mush the way mine has.

Oh well. We'll see. Today I get the book (which looked to be about 5 inches thick when I peeked at it in December) and the run-down of what volunteer time will be required of us, and where the opportunities are. I'd like to head to the tick lab. But that's just me.

Anyway, I'm off on an adventure. I'm a grown-up, dammit, and I shouldn't feel this uncertain. How bad can it be? I'll let you know.

lovely storms

This blizzard had the good breeding to show up on a weekend. Not that the weekend days are all that different from the weekdays around here - I don't go out all that much, really. We were fairly well-prepared - the pantry was full and we had plenty of firewood. We really didn't need much else.

On Saturday night, we finally shoveled our way out to the hot tub around 8 p.m., just as the heavy snow was changing over to freezing rain. We cleared the deck, went back inside to strip down and get our baseball caps and by the time we were soaking, what was coming out of the sky stung a bit. But the worst part was that the icy rain lowered the water temperature more quickly than we liked. By the time I got in (on nights like this I allow hobbitt to fold back the cover while I stay inside where it's warm - isn't that nice of me?) the water was 104° and within 15 minutes or so it had dropped to 102°. (Last night, when it was only about 8° with high winds - but no precipitation - the temperature of the water stayed relatively even.)

That's nothing to complain about, is it? Even the second shoveling yesterday, when there was no place to really move the foot of show, since we'd already built large banks of snow from the previous day's shoveling, was nothing to complain about. We still get to sit out there under the awesome starry sky, with an almost-full moon, up to our chins, and feel the warmth permeate our bones. It doesn't suck.

We didn't do much on Saturday night. We had Netflixed Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and we built a lovely fire, and we listened to the wind howl. When we finally went to bed, I opened the window and balcony door as usual. The door swayed and creaked in the wind all night before finally slamming itself shut around dawn. When I went to close the window after arising on Sunday morning, it took me a few minutes to clear all the snow and ice from within the jamb. hobbitt spent a few hours clearing the driveway to the garage with the snow blower (using it for perhaps the last time - and sorry, folks, but Jill has dibs on the snow blower if we move) while I baked and cooked. Our front door and the semi-circular drive are not accessible. My doctor called to cancel my appointment for this afternoon, so this will be another slow day at druid labs, and a bright and beautiful one at that.

and the winner is...

This week's winner for referrals to my blog is...

Well, ladies and gents, we have a tie!

yibbyl and allan, closely followed by hotski and Ali. Golly, is this a closed loop or something?

Of course, the soup recipe googlers are still the reigning champs of all time.

weird quotient rambling

The mac & cheese is done, and smells really good. hobbitt will enjoy it when he comes back inside after clearing the snow off the driveway, which he's been at for more than 90 minutes so far.

I'm cold. I think I'll put my shirt back on. Before I mixed up the meatloaf with my bare hands, I took it off. Don't you?

My best friend from all my life is about to turn 46 or so. His eyes are a little scratchy. There's not much mane or tail left. His belly seam has been repaired, as has one of the leg joints. The insides of Zeebee's ears are made from red velvet, as are his nostrils. He's worn but still as beautiful as ever. Family lore has it that I puked on him with alarming regularity, but Mom must have done an awesome job cleaning him up.

When traveling, I always use earplugs to sleep. I'm told I'm a low-maintenance guest. I'm pretty good at entertaining myself, and besides, I came to visit you, and not your local attractions. Unless you are one. Are you?

I believe in magic. Magic is how I met you. Remember?

Alison, blah blah blah, as usual

fer crying out loud

Look, I just don't care anymore.

This link will work for thirty days from now. Take a look. Pick a house for us. Just go ahead and pick. Just one, though.

And I need your answer by next Wednesday. Now go.

alison made me do it, as usual

BlueHeron Highway TravelWorld 7 Bog of Eternal Marriage 17 Contentment Meadows 51 Valley of Depression 162 Childbirth Hospital 321 Please Drive Carefully

Username:

Where are you on the highway of life?

From Go-Quiz.com

what makes a life

As part of the clean-up of the "garage room" (the attached 2-car garage that the previous owners converted into a game room) it's time for me to dispose of a lot of paperwork. Among the things I brought here from my mother's house are a couple of boxes of financial information pertaining to my Aunt Grace Whitehill's estate. She died in 1993 or 1994, and my mother was the executrix of her estate. She also wasn't a relative, but a lifelong friend of the family. (I have three Aunt Graces: my father's brother's wife, my mother's brother's wife, and this dear family friend.)

I'm not sure exactly what's in these two boxes, and I frankly don't care. It's none of my business. There are bank statements, deeds, bills, tax forms and the like. I'm only in the first box. This is one of the reasons we purchased a shredder. Aunt Grace and Harry are long gone and had no children. Her estate is long distributed. But there can still be SSN's and credit card information and I don't feel comfortable just recycling this paper.

But I see her handwriting on bills and correspondence. I see her care in managing and tracking her money. I see effort and focus and attention to detail. Aunt Grace Whitehill was a sweet woman, a lovely person, soft and kind and with a quiet, lady-like laugh. Now she's reduced, in this dimension, to a couple of boxes of papers. This is all that's left of her life, as far as I can see. This is all that's left of a lifetime of friendships and successes and tragedies and love and loss. Someday, that's all that will be left of me and hobbitt. I'm sad about it, of course. I miss sitting with her and sipping herbal tea and feeling embraced by all the warmth that my parents' circle of friends created. And I'm puzzled. What makes a life, and what's left - and what's the point of all this? Right now I just don't know.

details

I moved back into my office after fleeing to the family room for a month or so. The sheer volume of paperwork that needs to be filed (hobbitt? help?) or dealt with (me: lazy ass) was daunting, so my response was to pick up the laptop and bolt. Then we had company and there's a sleeper in there which had to be put to work. That family room sofa is pretty comfy, too, so I wasn't in too much of a hurry to get back in here.

I finally moved back in on Friday night, I think. I shoveled enough crapola to the side of the desk to make room for the laptop. The ergonomics aren't good here, which may not be a bad thing: I spend way too much time with a computer in the first place. This chair will not be moving with us. This desk may not be moving with us, which could be too bad. This is a cool desk. It was left in the basement of the home we bought in Illinois, probably because it was large and heavy and no one wanted to hoist it up the stairs. hobbitt and I hoisted it up not one but two flights of stairs and I've used it ever since 1990 or so. It's solid oak and old. It has three drawers (I've had to remove the center one because of the previously-mentioned ergonomic issues) and two cubbies, but my favorite parts are the two pull-out work surfaces on either side of the center, both of which are pulled out now and loaded with paperwork, because I run out of space on the desktop itself, which is approximately 1530 square inches of beautiful oak surface. (I had to measure that with a 15-inch straight edge because I didn't feel like rifling through the piles of paper to find the tape measure that I know is there somewhere.)

So anyway here I am back at my desk and reacquainting myself with the lovely view I have of the south woods, which is an acre of tranquility. In winter the sun, even at its highest, appears through the trees and today there is a liberal dusting of snow, which sparkles in the light. In summer this is a dark room but today the sun is pouring in through the large windows and illuminating my entire desk top, and would be in my face, too, if I hadn't installed the honeycomb blinds. The little pool that forms when the south sump is running (and we've had a lot of rain lately) is a gorgeous spot for birds to bathe and drink, and today they're there in force. Robins mostly. The best part of sitting here is the chance to see the hawks and deer. A moment ago a small group of whitetails (about 12) went bolting down the path in alarm. Since they've eaten away most of the understory there is very little to block my view.

I do like it here at druid labs east. It's lovely. We got very lucky when we had to come here. The house itself is inviting and friendly, and though larger than we need, still lends itself to being well-used. Don't even get me started about the pool and hot tub, the stars at night, the herons and hummingbirds. I have to keep reminding myself that next year this town will be reassessed and our property tax, already a steep $9,000, is likely to double. There are many reasons that it's time to go. I have to keep reminding myself of those little details.

framed art

More than one person has remarked at our sensory-overload of framed art. In our early years together we collected many pieces of original art, all inexpensive, fun, and colorful. Well, except for the Sam English watercolors, which are fun and colorful only.

As much as you see on the walls here at druid labs is how much is out in that garage room, for lack of wall space. Would you like some of that? Pretty much anything goes, except the Sam English watercolors, the Cuthberts, and the Yoakums, and the Andreas. How about a mostly-complete collection of Washington State International Kite Festival promotional art posters, signed and numbered? No?

would you like to take that with you today?

The best time to stop being materialistic is after you've already got all the "stuff."

Okay, so when we moved here we didn't do such a good job at paring down our possessions. We had a huge, month-long giveaway - TVs, washer and dryer, books, objects, records, books, lock-picking sets - you name it. We put it out there and invited our friends over for what my godson Max called "a garage sale where everything is free." (He took the lock-picking set.) Yet the marble orbs and paper-making equipment and kite fabric and a million other things that we haven't used since moving here came along anyway. And when my sister downsized from her 200-year-old farmhouse to her teeny tiny beach home, I got more stuff. And when we emptied Mom's house, I got even more stuff.

Now don't get me wrong - I have no problem shredding or burning my aunt's estate information (Mom was her executrix) and shit-canning my folks' pay stubs and tax information. If anybody wants it I'll be happy to give up the china. Somebody else can have the marble orbs and the Canada goose planter and the PVC lawn chairs and the snow-blower and even a bedroom set, if it comes to that. But it's time, regardless of whether we're moving or not, to start lightening the load here at druid labs.

Yesterday our dear friends Charlie and Mohamed came for a visit. I do believe we didn't stop laughing for nine hours. Charlie and I have been friends since we first met on May 7, 1979 in our data processing programmer trainee class. We became partners in crime and spent our youth wildly on crazed adventures, mostly involving dancing, drinking and shall we say, grazing on tasty morsels here and there. We'd show up for work the next day - almost always in fresh clothing - with bloodshot eyes and painful hair and giggles that just would not quit. We had fun. We didn't damage too much property and never maimed another soul, unless you count Cindy's barfing on the actual surface of the bar at the Casa Lida once. Mohamed wasn't around for any of this revelry, and I think he doesn't actually believe it.

No matter. We had fun. And I stuck Mohamed with a book and the cock-lantern that I got from my sister when she downsized. Yippee! That's one tchatchka out of the way, and 13,447 to go. What would you like to have?

okay, so I did the thing

The realtor was here. She likes the house, thinks we need do nothing other than paint the master bath. Named a price that I like and can work with. Thinks we can unload it within 2 months. All good news.

We're traveling to Port Townsend, WA on 1/27 to look at "that house" and some others, scout out the town, and such.

Now what?

Marie

My middle name is Marie. You didn't know that, did you? I was named for my godmother, Marie B., nee L. She's crazy. She used to dress up, at my age, in Saran Wrap and trick-or-treat the neighbors. At family gatherings, she was the one with the fun games: passing a single sheet of toilet paper using only straws and breath, from person to person; elaborately wrapped gag gifts in a bastardization of a Yankee Swap using two decks of playing cards; Twister. I kid you not.

Do I take after her? No, I don't do stand-up routines at the Leisure Village talent show. I don't plague my answering machine greeting with recycled jokes. I don't steal from my family. Oooooh, dark secret. Yup. She let her son persuade her to "borrow" $60k from my uncle (her sister's husband) when she had POA and my uncle was in the nut house after Aunt Agnes died.

Do I take after her? No. I don't let my husband dominate me, not that it's hobbitt's intention at all. There are some indications that Uncle Richard had less-than-pure intentions regarding other women in the family, including, but not limited to, pushing my Aunt Grace (by then a long-time but young widow) onto a bed in my own family's house when Agnes married Dennis. I never like Richard. Ever.

Who's afraid to say this? Not me. This shit sucks. We here at druid labs are all about accountability. Family is a wonderful thing, or can be. I, for one, love my sisters. Deeply. My brother, not so much. I'd like to. Maybe it will happen. But love doesn't often bloom over car talk, and that's our deepest subject.

My middle name is Marie. I'm named for my father's sister Catherine, called Kay. I'm named after my mother's next-oldest sister Marie, the only sibling left. Cathy M. Cathy M. W. Nowadays I go by Cathy W. C.. Did I shut out Aunt Marie and all her fun-loving pranks? Nope. I'd like to think I'm far less corny than Aunt Marie but the fact is, she's pretty much a lot of fun. Even at 87. Can I forgive her for the past? Yup. Will I forget? Not on your life.

I miss my mommy

One year ago this very moment, I was holding my mother's hand as she had a small seizure about an hour before she died. Her eyes flew open and she stared, almost as if in amazement. Eunice said later that she believes that happens when the dying see the angels in their terrible glory. I gave her more liquid morphine to relax her body. She was very close to dying and that was obvious to me. I had been listening to her racing heart all day. It couldn't last much longer.

Comfort comes when I remember that Mom wanted to be done with this world, to join my father, her one and only sweetheart, once more. But that's a double-edged sword, because we, I, wasn't enough for her to want to stick around. Comfort comes when I acknowledge that my life is mostly my own again, my obligations fully discharged. Comfort comes when I remember that Mom was suffering with dementia and is now at peace.

But sometimes a girl needs her mommy. Sometimes she needs to ask, "What should I do?" or "What would you do?" Sometimes she wants to hear old stories told one more time, like the story of her birth: You were the only white baby in the nursery, and you had a shock of white hair. Your father stood in the window with all the other fathers and said, "I wonder which one is mine?"

My friend Angela reminded me today that we were lucky to have such good parents. I didn't have to struggle to find my way in a broken or unhappy home. I always knew I was loved. I always felt safe. My parents were always there for me.

Perhaps that doesn't end with death. I do feel loved and safe. But I sure do miss the kisses and hugs, and the distinct and priceless sound of their voices calling my name.

aw crap, part III

I found the perfect house for us.

Take the virtual tour.

Damn. I'm not quite ready to move that fast.

life without humor would be, well, cancer

I woke this morning with some minor back pain, mid-back, left side. For the life of me I can't remember anything I might have done to strain it. For a brief moment, while still lying in bed, I wondered if this might not be some kidney ailment, since I'm on diuretics for my blood pressure and am fairly certain I do not stay adequately hydrated.

Of course this is obviously muscle pain, but the idle kidney thought brought me to other ideas. Those of you with a strange sense of humor and a cancer history will get the joke - this must be back cancer. Morbid? To you, maybe, but to me and LinDuh and Nancy it's all part of the ongoing refusal to submit: a headache isn't the normal spring allergy, but head cancer. A bruised shin is leg cancer. A hangnail is finger cancer. I've also had tooth cancer and eyelid cancer. Nancy had toe cancer when she began losing her toenails after doing the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. Hangovers are hair cancer. You get the picture.

It's pretty funny to us. For those of you who don't get it, I hope you never do.

is it spring already?

The mean temperature in these parts at this time of year is 31F, with the average high at 40F and the low at 22F. This is far, far milder than our previous domicile, and though I hear my neighbors complain all the time about the cold, to me it's pretty comfortable.

This season it has been quite a bit warmer than the means and averages. Right now it's almost 45F. On New Year's Day, we took a walk on the beach with friends to the tune of about 63F. Later this week we'll be reaching the sixties again.

The Shasta daisies are starting to come up, and I believe the rudbeckia is doing the same thing. I'm not worrying about them. They'll be fine regardless of what happens. And if I play my cards right in managing my time, I might even be able to get in one more hot tub cleaning/refilling before winter weather arrives to stay, if it's going to. That's a good thing: we had a mob of people soaking this past weekend, and have been using it ourselves a lot more than in the summer and fall. I love a squeaky-clean tub, and always make sure it's that way for guests, too.

My hands will chap horribly and my back will be a bit sore from emptying and scrubbing the tub. I'll have to drag a hose out of the garage for the refilling. And I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing. Now if I could just be hypnotized to believe that every other chore that needs doing appears to be the hot tub duty...

aw, crap: part II

hobbitt let it be known tonight (in addition to the "let's live oceanfront" comment from New Year's Day) that he's not only amenable, but excited about moving. Which is my signal to "Make it so #1."

I'll say this much: it won't happen this year. But it will probably inspire a rush of home improvements at druid labs east. We need new furnaces; the cedar and redwood siding needs to be stained; the master bath wouldn't cut the mustard in this town anymore; we'll forgo the hardwood floors we wanted, but that pink carpet in the Navaho red dining room has got to go, as does the worn/stained/crappy Berber in the family room. Some repairs are needed, too, like the pool lights and clogged north sump pipe.

As for me, I want another summer in that pool. I hope you will all join me. There may not be another chance to enjoy it.

pucker up, I'm baring it

congratulations. you are the kiss my ass happy
bunny. You don't care about anyone or anything.
You must be so proud


which happy bunny are you?
brought to you by Quizilla


newwavegurly made me do it.

should I stay or should I go?

If I go there will be trouble
And if I stay it will be double
So come on and let me know

Dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit!

This past holiday was probably the most fun and heartwarming I've ever had. I am constantly blown away by the calibre of people that choose to come here, and equally glad that almost all of them have a definite departure date.

And I can't help feeling we're coming to the end of our tenure here at druid labs east. This is a wonderful house, a lovely piece of land, and there are some awesome features like full-naked privacy and a hot tub on this almost-private road. Even the still-plays-with-construction-equipment neighbor doesn't bother me too much as he's far enough away that I don't have to deal with him.

Leaving our home in Downers Grove was torture for me, harder than dealing with cancer in many ways. I still grieve the loss of our neighbors, the proximity to my girlfriends, my beloved walking trails and Trader Joe's (okay, I'm getting silly now). There's no going back and that's a literal truth: the neighborhood is going McMansion in a big way. I couldn't afford to move back even if I wanted to, though Illinois isn't on any list of places we want to go next. It's changed now and isn't what it was, so perhaps leaving, as painful as it was, in some small way was a blessing in disguise. I would probably want out.

My work here is finished. Mom is gone to her final real estate with Dad in Saint Catharine's Cemetery in Spring Lake. The estate will be closed in a few short months. I don't feel the closeness and intimacy with my local siblings or their children that I do with the out-of-towners that visit us, even the ones who come here without having met us first. Why is that? What's wrong with me?

Other than the normal laziness there is another reluctance to bolt. Would our friends, old and new, come visit us where we land next? Would we isolate ourselves even more than now by settling in a new area without contacts, family, or any sort of mission whatever? Part of me is really excited by the idea of starting out again, the way we did in 1990 when we married and moved from NJ to Illinois. Everything was new and fresh and challenging. Perhaps I've forgotten enough the loneliness I felt at first and for a long time there, the disconnect I felt with the surburban Chicago lifestyle. I'm not that young anymore and let's face it, at my age everything will keep getting harder and harder.

But I want to bolt. I want away from my family, from New Jersey, from fresh memories, fresh grief, unwanted obligations. Aunt Grace in spite of her frail health isn't likely to leave us anytime soon. I can visit Mom and Dad's grave as often as I do now from anywhere in the US, and besides, I don't believe that's where they really are. I'm more attached to their old home as a place for memories.

We came here because I had to. Neither of us wanted this. And yet here we are, and here I struggle again and again and again with this same issue. What should I do? How should I think about this? What's the tool to use for deciding? And most importantly, why can't I just be content here?

underpants gnomes

Last Thursday I was helping our guest Alexandra get settled into the front guest room, and I opened the bureau drawers to see if I needed to rearrange anything to make space for her, when lo! and behold! in the top right drawer I found a pair of French-cut panties, black with brightly colored cherries.

Two years ago my sister Nancy, after having stayed in that room for almost a week, informed me that she found black bikini panties under the bed, and left them there. I was horrified to think panties had been left under a bed in my house - panties that didn't belong to me (though I would have been even more horrified if they had been mine) - and that no one had the decency to tell me. How long had they been there? Who else discovered them and just went home knowing the dirty little secret of my lax housekeeping?

At first I thought those black panties were women's, but after I took them out of the washing machine, I realized the crotch was poofed out, quite a bit, causing me to suspect they belonged Chuck, who had stayed here one night with my old college friend Kevin. But there's no fly, so I really cannot be sure. I threw them away.

There are shirts and swim trunks and all sorts of clothing and stuff around here that do not belong to us: Poligrip in the guest bath; shampoos that Nancy always leaves behind; a cool 1997 Twin Lakes Eastern Regional sweatshirt that I had thought belonged to my nephew but was reunited with Peter when he was here for New Year's Eve; one of Chuck's dress shirts, and more than a couple of Kevin's shirts and bandanas. I don't get my shorts in a bunch about this kind of stuff. There's plenty of room for a few items.

But I think there's an underwear conspiracy going on behind my back. Do these belong to you?