Ira and Mabel Kidder

March 29, 2009 at 12:00 pm (Waxing Nostalgic)

I love the calm of Sunday morning. The teenagers are all passed out from late night activities, as are the adults. I’d be sleeping too, if I didn’t have to work.

Scheduling changes mean my workweek starts on Sunday afternoon. This is okay, but it’s taking some adjusting. Sundays are my ‘I don’t have to do a damn thing’ day, or have been for years. The upside is that by Monday night my workweek is half over.

This weekend was quiet. I watched a lot of basketball. College kids playing like they mean it, and pro playoffs are just a couple weeks away. They are hungry. The Blazers have played hungry all year long, and it’s been a pleasure to witness. It’s nice to have home-court advantage and playoff positioning in the news, as opposed to hollowed-out pop cans and aluminum foil jock-padding. (Hey Damon! JR!) There hasn’t been one Trailblazer arrest all year, has there? (Whazzup Zeebo?) Faith and begorrah! Hope I didn’t just jinx something.

It’s hard getting motivated. Sunday morning bed-making wasn’t as much fun as usual. Breakfast was yogurt and granola instead of smoked trout hash. Instead of preparing for my afternoon nap, I have to walk the better part of a mile to a bus that takes me to work. Fun times. At least I have a job to go to, and a home to return to.

Friday was the 21st anniversary of the passing of my mother. This time of year is always dark for me. Loved ones tend to pass on in the spring in our family. It also seems to be when my relationships go south. This year, knock on wood, everyone is in good health. I’m comfortable with my singleness; not feeling like I have to be attached at the hips to someone to be complete. I miss having Clairissa across town, but I get funny text messages and tipsy phone calls from the south. She’s doing fine, and it sounds like she misses me as much as I miss her.

My uncle is doing well, keeping a low profile up in Vantucky. He married his rest-home sweetheart, and they spend their evenings watching Wheel of Fortune and holding hands. Aww…

I question my mental health sometimes. Is my memory shot? Did those fabulous 70s (and 80s, and 90s…) damage my brain? I spent the better part of a week trying to remember the names of friends of my parents from my early single-digit childhood. He looked like Art Carney and she looked like a plump Granny Clampett. Stymied for days, it finally hit me in the wee hours. Their names were Ira and Mabel Kidder. They were very sweet people, as were most of my parent’s friends.

It kept me amused for days.

I guess my mind isn’t shot. It just takes a while to fire it up sometimes…

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