What a Ball!

It was a real yes-siree-good-ole-American kind of weekend, complete with hot dogs and baseball.

The boy and I went to the Indians/Cardinals game Friday and enjoyed the win (and some vertigo) from the cheap seats.

And yesterday, my sister and I took my nephew to a farm-team game with the Lake County Captains and the Lakewood Blueclaws, which, believe it or not, was a far more exciting time than the pro game.

First of all, a player got ejected for yelling at the ball. Seriously. The ball landed on the third base foul line, and the guy literally got down on all fours in the dust and started blowing on the ball and yelling at it, a la Happy Gilmore. Apparently the ump didn't find it nearly as amusing as I did.

Then a player broke a bat on a hit, and wood went flying everywhere (that's what she said).

Then a player got knocked out after colliding with another player.

And then I had chili cheese fries.

Plus, they let the kids run the bases after the game, which was all sorts of cute. The day got an A+.

This weekend took me back to when I was growing up and played softball. While I was no Shin-Soo "Coo Coo a Choo" Choo, I did enjoy running around and hitting things.

Here are some low-quality pictures of pictures of my first year playing (my scanner is schizo); though they're a bit fuzzy, I think it's the last documentation of my real hair color. I was about eight or so.





"Moose" wasn't my nickname (fortunately) -- the local Moose lodge sponsored us. I still have the shirt, which is into its second decade. Now, though, the only one that can fit into it is the dog, though he does so begrudgingly and only with the aid of peanut butter cookies.

"If I had thumbs, I would cut you for this."

In the Comments section, tell me what your favorite relics from your childhood are and/or if you like to dress up your dog.

It's Only Natural

The boy and I hit up Cleveland's Museum of Natural History last night, which is open until 10 on Wednesdays AND for only $5 per person -- holla!

I love that kind of junk -- fossils and soil samples and gem stones and such. Oh God, the gem stones! So, so lovely and such crazy names! Zoilite. Andamooka opal. Kornerupine. Grossularite. Bixbite. Potch. All of them lovely despite their silly names.

Know what else is lovely? Jewelry by the muy, muy talented and clever WendyB. I'm eyeing some of these very tasteful cuff links for the boy's upcoming birthday. I think they would actually be more for my amusement, but as they say, tis better to give than receive.

We'll see, though. To buy birthday gifts for his future birthday assumes that I'll keep him around until then. He's definitely a strong contender, but my track record with stick-to-it-iveness isn't the shiniest, I admit. And sadly, I'm not sure my Dad could really rock those cuff links, so I have to be really sure, WendyB.

But, if we make it through about six more weeks or so, he'll either get those cufflinks or a weekend at Cedar Point. Woo hoo! America's Roller Coast!

I know Ohio gets a bad rep, but, honestly, I rather like it here. I mean, we got coasters, culture, nightlife, dinosaur bones, music, an Iron Chef, and the Duct Tape Festival. What else do you need?

In the Comments section, tell me what you like about Cleveland.

What a Waste

Hey Innernet Friends, I have a query for you. Any ideas about green solutions for dog poop?

I already use bio-degradable bags for walks (yes, I do the doo, as it were. So should you. People who don't clean up after their dogs are worse than people who don't return their grocery carts to the corrals, and you know how much I detest those people).

But, I feel like there's a way to make it even more eco-friendly. All thoughts appreciated.

In the Comments section, aside from the obvious advice, tell me what kind of people are worse than dog owners who don't clean up after their pets.

Weather Permitting

I've become preoccupied with the weather lately. Historically, I was the kind of person who just stuck my head out of the window and adjusted plans and outerwear to the conditions.

These days, I check the hourly advisories and pour over the extended 10-day forecast like it contains the meaning of life. Strange.

Well, maybe not. I've hit a kind of a stride. I guess you could call it a rut if you were feeling less generous but at least I can count on the weather to change.

Fortunately, the new boy is proving to be a comfortable match for where my head's at right now. He's a good apple. Sorry for the vagueness. I told Megan Jane I'm going to give it the "appropriate" space and energy to develop, and I've had to learn the hard way that blabbing the minutia to the Interwebnets isn't necessarily appropriate.

I should probably savor this quiet, since I've got an impending move ahead. Not far -- just a few blocks from where I am now, but you know how even a small move can shake shit up.

Speaking of shaking it, we had a random celebrity sighting in our neck of the woods. We were out to dinner at a little local place and looked over to see American Idol contestant Scott Savol. I'm not a big fan of the show, but it's always nice when local somebodies can make good.

I didn't talk to him, of course, given my track record with celebrities, but our waitress did. She reported that he was very gracious and he said he was spending his time in Nashville and was just home for a visit. So, there you go. Your daily entertainment report.

In the Comments section, tell me what the weather's like where you are. Cleveland's East side is currently enjoying mild temperatures, increasing cloud cover and a 60% chance of rain.

'Shroom in My Heart

I signed up for a mushroom hunt/hiking extravaganza for Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!

I am all sorts of excited. It's a six-hour trek around Cleveland's nature bits, and at the end, we get to come back to the local nature center and cook up our catches. Tres exciting.

Our 'shroom leader, Nate, said we're going to be looking primarily for morels, which is funny because I will also be trying to locate my morals this weekend. See I've met someone, and it's likely there will be some making out of the teenage variety in my near future. Don't want to jinx anything, but I will relay all of my wild adventures later.

In the Comments section, tell me what wild things you're getting into this weekend.

Busk a Move

So, I've been writing songs and playing my geetar for nearly 10 years now, and you'd think it would get easier to play in front of people, but it really, really hasn't. I mean, not for nothing, I'm a minimalist guitar player, but I sing pretty well and I like writing my little story-songs, though I have a hard time putting myself out there, as the kids say.

My dear Adelka Ann has told me that it's selfish of me not to share because my voice uplifts people. Megan Jane has graciously assumed the role of publicity manager, extolling my talents from coast to coast. Kirstin said I am every bit as good as Jessica Lea Mayfield, which I still think is a bit of a hyperbole, but the thought of that made me feel squishy inside.

In short, every single one of my fambly members and friends has stood behind me in support.

And still, I get knock-kneed and freaked out at the thought of playing music in front of people. It's not that I don't think I'm talented; it's that I get worried that other people won't think I'm talented and they'll walk away shaking their heads going, "What a hack. Poor thing actually thinks she sounds good."

I know, I KNOW -- I don't understand me, either.

So, this weekend, I decided enough was enough. I packed up my ax, yanked myself by the collar and headed to downtown Cleveland. I parked my guitar case about a block away from Jacob's Field (I'll never call it Progressive Field. NEVER!) and … just played. In front of strangers. Like they do in the movies.

So random.

There's an actual name for it: busking. To busk is to do street performances, generally music, but I've seen buskers who did back flips and puppet shows, so I think there's a lot of room for interpretation.

Even though the Indians lost, people were still so nice. And they stopped to listen and nod and give me compliments and drop monies in my case. I started to realize that I was getting paid to 1) conquer my fear and 2) practice. Yawesome!

I got $22 in a little more than an hour.

But, I still felt dumb the entire time. And awkward. And worried about what people were thinking of me. Those are the things I'm working to overcome.

So, I am going to keep taking to the street stage until I do, until I haven't an ounce of fear left, until I feel confident walking into a coffee shop or tavern or farmer's market and saying, "Hey, I'd like to play music here."

Because, seriously, who wants to work in financial publishing forever?

In the Comments section, tell me what you are afraid of. I am obviously not afraid of sentences that end with a prepositional phrase.

Port of Call

"Half of the time we're gone but we don't know where, and we don't know where." The Only Living Boy In New York

Here in Cleveland, we enjoyed our three days of sunshine for the year. Oh, I kid -- we actually get about 45 solidly sunny days, which is still abysmally low compared to … well, anywhere else.

But we make the most of them, like Amish teens' during their Rumspringa -- when it gets warm after so many months of sedative cold and snow, we go flipping crazy up in here. Behold:

That's right, son. Sun tea next to a giant tea cup full of herbs I just planted. What what! (Giant tea cup courtesy of Kirstin's good taste in birthday gifts.)

Eh, I think I'm growing up, my pretties. A few years back, I would've celebrated the advent of summer with a tube top and drinking so hard that when said tube top would fall down, I wouldn't even care. Now? I make tea and grow things.

I'm all right with it, the transition. I think. I mean, there's no rule I can't wear a tube top while planting things.

I guess I'm in a little bit of a crummy mood because I got some bad news. I just found out that a woman I used to volunteer with, Jude, died late last year.

A few years ago, I came across an organization that provides grocery shopping for people who can still cook and feed themselves but who have trouble getting out of the house. I signed on to be a personal shopper volunteer because it was, like, the most-perfect position for me EVER.

The agency paired me with Jude who, at the time, was suffering from edema and severe obesity. I don't recall how big she was exactly but suffice to say that upon meeting her, I immediately understood why it was difficult for her to leave the house.

The director of the agency said she'd had a revolving door with Jude, but it wasn't Jude's personality -- it's just that neither she, nor her home, smelled very pleasant. Jude's housekeeping strategy was to not do it and, best as I could tell, her bathtub doubled as a storage area for VHS tapes.

Plus, Jude eventually opened up to me that when you're a large person with limited mobility, there are certain facts of life you have to deal with, including that sometimes you can't make it to the bathroom in time.

Now, if I'm painting a sad portrait of this woman's life, let me assure you that, yes, it was. But, the reason that I visited and shopped for Jude for more than a year was that she was full of moxie. She was whip-smart and had a sassy mouth.

She was from upstate New York, a point she liked to make often. "They can't fool me; I'm from upstate, OK?"

Jude loved to debate politics and, whenever I came to her with a story about a no-good boy or a professor who was giving me guff, she always had the perfect retort. I get the sense, though, that she was someone who spent a lifetime thinking about the things she should have said but didn't.

After I'd been shopping for her about six months, she told me that she'd looked up an old boyfriend on the Internet and contacted him. It'd been 30 years, she said. Now he was working at the statehouse or something -- a rising politician.

"There's nothing worse," she said. "I can't believe I used to love him."

She told me that he was surprised to hear from her, but his reply e-mail was pleasant enough.

"I ought to send him a fake picture of a beautiful woman just because," she told me.

That deflated my heart -- I'm sure I'm murmured something about how she was lovely in her own way. At least I hope I did.

In any case, I had to part ways with Jude when I moved to Maryland, but she sent me e-cards every now and again. In one, she told me she'd been approved for gastric bypass and was looking forward to becoming who she was meant to be. I was thrilled for her.

Then I got a change of address card -- she was making a fresh, clean start, she said. New digs. I was overjoyed.

And then … nothing. I assumed she had settled into her happy, new life. I was so majorly bummed to learn she had actually settled into death. So, yes, the sunshine has definitely left me today.

Well, that's not quite true -- this news has me thinking about how I spend my time. And where I spend my time. My dear boss recently quit and took a position that brought her to the beach, and I think a similar change of scenery would do wonders for me. I'm thinking I might summer in Portland, Maine -- any closet Portland readers out there?

In a completely unrelated note, the sunshine spurred me to cover Billy Ocean's When the Going Gets Tough. I told ya'll the heat makes us crazy.

In the Comments section, tell me where you'd like to summer and/or if you're a Portland peep.

Chow Time

I accidentally ate dog food today.

See, I often put dog kibble in my jacket pockets when I walk the dogs as rewards for nice doggie behavior.

This morning, I was hungry and threw a few smoked almonds into my pocket, which I totally thought was empty ... I guess you can see where this is going.

It tasted like a beef-flavored crouton -- wasn't half bad, actually.

In the Comments section, tell me what's in your pocket.

Fantasy Island

Has this ever happened to you?

Maybe you're a single gal and you stumble upon the blog of a funny, intelligent, attractive blogger and spend a good two hours scouring his archives and THEN, 847 posts in, he finally mentions his wife and it crushes you because your fantasy of a whirlwind romance with said handsome blogger has suddenly crashed and burned?

No? Me either. My life is totally balanced.

In the Comments section, tell me about the best part of your day so far.

Playing Ketchup

He found me in the cured meats section. I'd spent seven minutes lusting after some real bacon before finally settling for the 25-calorie-a-slice turkey bacon with the suspect coloring.

"Hey," he said, "I don't have enough money for this sausage. Can you help me out?"

Ohhhh. "I'm so sorry," I said. "I don't have any cash on me" and I didn't. Then I walked away.

I meandered around the grocery, collecting a coconut, some dried thyme, tahini, frozen Brussels sprouts and a couple of lemons. You know, the basics. Then I took my place in line and who did I see?

"Hey," he said, "I don't have enough money for these potatoes. Can you help me out?"

"Again, I don't have any cash … … but I guess you can put them on my tab," I said.

"OK. Thanks, miss," he said, and plunked down his sack of taters. His dilated pupils pulsed under the fluorescent lights as he talked.

I was just about ready to swipe my card when he showed up again with a bottle of ketchup.

"Mmm?" he said, holding up the bottle of name brand catsup by way of permission. I don't even buy name-brand catsup!!

Le sigh.

"Fine. That's it, though."

So, I bought a strange, desperate man with big pupils a sack of potatoes and a bottle of ketchup. I'm thankful I'm in a position to easily afford it. Why, then, do I feel so guilty that I had the security guard walk me a good part of the way home?

In the Comment section, tell me what you would ask a stranger to buy you at the grocery store if you were desperate and hungry. Myself? I'd go for apples, bread and a big hunk of cheese.

Did Not. Did Too. Did Not.

Weird.

About a year ago, I met a boy from the Internet and we went on a date. Just a simple dinner. It was nice. On a scale of 1 to 10, I'd give him a strong 7. We had an innocent good-night kiss and plans were made to see each other again. And then he stood me up twice in a row, so I shrugged my shoulders and chalked it up to asshattery.

Well, he sent me an e-mail yesterday to the effect of "I'm sorry. I got really busy and then I lost my phone with all of my numbers and then I didn't hear from you and then I was attacked by killer bees ..."

It felt a little like that scene in Dude, Where's My Car? with the Chinese lady: "And then ... and then ... and THEN!"

He finished the note with: "I thought you were really attractive and I'd love to hang out again. I had such a good time building that campfire with you."

… ?

Campfire?

Now, I'm a gal who LOVES campfires. I would have remembered a date like that. Obviously, dude was hopped up on goofballs and had me confused with someone else he impolitely stood up.

So, I told him so.

"I'm afraid you've got me mixed up with someone else. I don't recall a campfire. What I do remember is that you stood me up twice, and didn't return my last call, so I'm sure you'll understand why I'm not interested in seeing you again. On the up side, maybe you can reconnect with the other girl."

OK, finite. Have a nice life, bozo.

But, oh no -- not this peach. "I'm not confused. I remember you. And I remember having sex."

Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa? That's a bold statement, muchacho.

So, I wrote back: "Well, there are two possibilities here: One, you have DEFINITELY got the wrong girl because we didn't have sex. Or, two, we had sex and I thought it was so awful that I literally have blocked it out of my memory. Take your pick."

Funny, I haven't heard back from him.

In the Comments section, tell me about your experience with mistaken identity.

Top Secret

OK, so it's been proven to me time and again that all of the cool kids are using Tumblr, but given that I only relatively recently set up a MySpace page, it seems unlikely that I'll migrate. Still, I'm not above stealing genius ideas.

Many of the Tumblr kids are posting secret messages to the bloggers they follow. I, for one, think this is a wonderful idea because there are things that I feel about many of you that I could never, or would never, leave in your comments section. Believe it or not, I spend a lot of my day thinking about you.

So, here are some secret messages.

• I don't think you give yourself enough credit. You make the world a much nicer place.
• Seriously, you really bum me out. Like, a lot. Still, I can't not look to see what messes you've made for yourself this time or the latest attempt for sympathy. Thanks for making me feel better about my life.
• I think you are one of the most magnificent human beans I've ever had the pleasure to come across. You seem almost magical.
• What in THE HELL are you doing with him?
• You can't fool me; you're not happy.
• I crave your approval.
• There isn't one single aspect of your life that I'd like to have.
• I like to believe that one day we will fall in love.
• You do such amazing stuff! Sometimes I can't read every day because it reminds me of all of the things I'm not doing.
• It's so old. Just quit it already.
• I hope you find what you're looking for. I really, really do. In the meantime, it's mildly entertaining to read about your attempts at trying to find it.
• You never fail to brighten my day. It makes me oh-so-happy when I see tiny bits of myself in you.
  

In the Comments section, leave a secret message for a blogger you follow.

At the Core

Apple core, Baltimore, who's your friend?

My Mom used to say that rhyme all the time in a sing-song voice, but she never could accurately explain what it meant.

"It's, you know, just something we said as kids. Like on the playground."

"Yeah, but was it, like, a game? Did you skip or hopscotch to it? Did you say when someone was eating an apple? It's so random--would you just spit it out Tourette's style whenever you felt like it?"

"I guess so," she said. "It doesn't really mean anything"

I don't like things that don't have meaning. In my world everything has meaning. Of course, I'm also kind of hyper-sensitive. Well, I guess you can't be "kind of" hypersensitive, so, yes, I am hyper-sensitive.

This is what my apple cores look like because I have superior paring knife skillz.

For instance, Old High School Boyfriend Chad commented that I changed the part in my hair after I sent him a recent picture of the "new" blonde I took on. (It's much more "blonde" than the strawberry blonde I recently tried to pass off as blonde. Apologies for the ruse. Pictures soon.)

And instead of letting it go, I says to myself, "Self, boys don't notice stuff like that unless …"

But then I jerked my wandering heart back and gave myself a stern talking to because I am NOT going to go there. I've spent the better part of a decade pining away for him when he's rebuffed me at every opportunity since I moved away from him when I was 17 and we broke up by default.

But because I can't ever let it go, I think at the core of his stand-offishness is insecurity. Maybe wishy-washy is a better phrase to describe him because he's always glad to see me, and he calls and e-mails me unprovoked. But then, when we get an opportunity to rekindle things--nothing. Zip.

I learned my lesson with him after the first time I made a move--he just wasn't, well, comfortable. So, when we're together, we sit there with the sexual tension looming between us.

He told me once during our teenage courtship that he was scared of me. Not, like, oh-my-God-she's-going-to-kill-me, but he said I was "just so much" followed by, "I mean, I like it, but … I don't know what to do with it."

Of course, what 17-year-old boy does know what to do with a sexually charged girl, but it was deeper than that. Still, I didn't even ask him to elaborate because I knew what he meant. It's been suggested that I can come on a little strong at times.

I guess it's the curse of all superior women--it takes a very strong man (or, ya know, other woman for the lesbian set) to match you. Even at a young age, I realized that I didn't quite act like the other girls--a bit more brazen, a bit more independent, just a bit more.

(Incidentally, Valerie means "strong." Go figure.)

I know it's 2009 but it's been my experience that a lot of men are still put off by an intelligent, capable, sexually-aware woman. I mean, not that Old High School Boyfriend Chad would want me to "know my role" or anything, but I do think that he's spent the bulk of his relationships with mousy little girls and just doesn't know what to do with me.

For those of you playing at home, I am decidedly NOT a mousy little girl. (Thought I am littler now thanks to my trainer, Patty, but I don't think I could be mousy if I tried … Wait, I'm going to try and be mousy right quick.)

[scrunches up nose and in the tiniest voice says "Whatever you want to do. I have no opinion."]

Blach. That was gross. Nope. Mousy is not happening.

And I'm trying to resign myself to the fact that a relationship with High School Boyfriend Chad probably isn't ever happening, either. That's tough for me to admit, but them's the facts. It's one thing for a 17-year-old boy to be afraid of me; it's a whole other story for a 30-year-old man to be intimidated.

I guess asking him to buck up would be about as successful as if he asked me buck down. Well, a leopard can't change her spots, but she can change her dreams.

My friend Allison is having superior success with manifesting financial abundance, so I'm going to take a cue from her. I'm imagining what it's like to be in love with a strong, secure, sexy, caring, considerate, independent, kind, goal-oriented, intelligent, funny, honest, supportive guy who doesn't snore and thinks I'm the cat's pajamas. Oooh, this is fun!

In the Comments section, tell me who YOU think is the cat's pajamas. My answer is all of you, natch. And also Ray Lamontagne. I bet he wouldn't be put off by me.

Let There Be Light

Today is my birthday, marking 29 years on this beautiful planet. Still, birthdays always bring me down a little bit, which my astrologer says is to be expected: “Beware of any day that is celebrated with candles; the candles are used to offset the darkness that most of us feel.”

On the very upside, though, my wonderful step-Mom sent me a new outfit, and it fell right off me. Well, not right off, but I was able to easily take the pants off without unbuttoning them, which could come in handy, I suppose.

Especially if one were to, say, meet a married German guy in a cheesy hotel bar during a business trip and go back to his room and get to know him better, though not totally, but enough to know that, yes, European men have a whole different concept of what constitutes as underwear. *

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

So, to celebrate pulling my pants down and a pretty great set of 29 years, I’m going to keep preparing for another 29 amazing years. A kick-ass workout, a leafy green salad, a run with the Dodger dog, a little songwriting and a hot bath are in the cards tonight.

Total Snoozeville, I admit, but there’s a lot to be said for getting to bed on time so I can get to Saturday’s farmers’ market early and flirt with the homemade salsa guy (both of them so spicy!).

You know, this whole physical transformation for me -- from the hair, to the fitness, to trying to remain more conscious of the “vibe” I’m putting out to people -- was born out of frustration, frustration that people I thought mattered were failing to see my true qualities. (Why, hello, self-absorbed Aries nature! Nice to meet y... wait, let's focus on me some more.)

I started this endeavor thinking that -- right, wrong or indifferent -- being my “best” self in every sense of the word would allow me more options, that I could be the one deciding when someone wasn’t up to my standards, and not the other way around.

I wish I could say that I’ve shaken that external motivation, but the fact is, it’s only been reinforced now that I’m turning heads again and ex-boyfriends are sending “Hey, you look great. We should get together” messages.

I just find it hard to believe that 15 stupid pounds and some hair color can make THAT much difference, so I have to assume that maybe my inner beauty has also improved, too.

Or maybe I just think too highly of people and we are that superficial.

Nah. I have enough awesome people in my life to disprove that theory, the very same people I often forget to tell how much they mean to me. It seems to me the key to having a happy birthday is not to dwell on who’s missing from the “party” but who’s already there.

Welp, I’ve got plenty of birthday love to go around, so let’s all light a candle and make a wish today. Oh, and stop by The Maiden Metallurgist, who is my Birthday Twin, with good tidings!

In the Comments section, tell me what your wish is. I don't believe in superstitions, so I’ll share mine: a true and comfortable love. That shouldn’t be so hard, right?


*Not proud of it, mind you, but I’ve found that at the very least, every bad judgment call makes a pretty good story.

A Monkey’s Uncle

My Uncle A told me the other day he uses ‘human urine’ to keep the deer out of his garden.

“Yeah, I just go out there at night when the neighbors are asleep and mark the perimeter. Don’t have no trouble with the deer.”

This sort of absurd practicality and disregard for social convention sums up Uncle A pretty squarely.

I should explain that he is the archetypal crazy uncle. He’s a recluse who never left the nest of the family home and he’s extraordinarily Luddite. He still uses a rotary phone and a hand-wringing washing machine. He’s never used a credit card. But, of course, as the quintessential bachelor he’s succumbed to a flat-screen TV, which is shockingly out of place next to his woodstove.

“Not a plasma. You catch the glare. Just your run-of-the-mill HD TV,” which is hooked up to an antennae that Uncle A affixed to the roof in 1963, the same one he can be seen scrambling up a ladder to adjust when the cloud cover is high.

He is very thrifty, which is why he’d never pay for cable. He darns his own socks, he’s got a (very organized) collection of empty jars and bottles that he’ll never use, and he’s the only man I’ve ever seen excited about triple coupons. Not surprisingly, he informed us that, at any given time, he likes to keep between $3,000 and $4,000 in cash on his person.

“The tractor dealer gives me a better rate when I pay cash” was his answer to our anxious protests.

Lest you think Uncle A was a turn of the century child, let me tell you he’s only 64, just a few years older than me old Da. But there is a sibling rivalry between them (at least in Uncle A’s mind) that has existed since the advent of time.

Maybe it’s because my Dad has had enough love affairs, job changes and general life experiences for the both of them but my Uncle A has felt it necessary to stake out the one area where he reigns over my Dad: memories.

His few extra years on this planet have granted him the only key to the family history, and each visit I’ll hear, ”Now, your father won’t remember this, but …” and Uncle A will spin some tale of family gossip that my father couldn’t possibly remember, even if, say, it involved my father’s wedding(s).

He’s a bizarre, but kind man. We suspect that living all those years under the controlling thumb of my judgmental grand-dad, as well as a case of undiagnosed Asperger’s or high-functioning autism, explains it.

He’s basically a gentle soul, but he has frenetic impulses and a complusive need for order; he stacked and re-stacked his 10-foot woodpile four times because he couldn’t “get the wood to lay right.”

His house has been completely unchanged since the late ‘80s, since my grand-dad died. A family photo taken in the kitchen this Christmas might be mistaken for the one we took in 1988, if it weren’t for the change in the subjects.

The funny thing is, Uncle A wasn’t always so … strange. I mean, he was born a little odd, to be sure, but my Dad tells us that he used to race stock cars and pal around with “the guys.” He took girls out for drinks after work.

Uncle A told me about a night when he and a lady friend ended up at a go-go club. He asked the girl to dance and, after trying to Watusi or the Twist or whatever it was they did back then, he succumbed to the music. He told his dancing date, “You can do what you want do; I’m gonna follow the go-go dancer” and he began flailing his arms. (This has, as you might imagine, become a favorite family quote, especially when trying to decide on the banal, like whether to have chicken or spaghetti for dinner.)

Soon after that night, Uncle A took ballroom dancing lessons on a whim, and it turned out he was a natural. He toured on the semi-pro circuit for a while, and even fell in love with a fellow dancer, who later broke his heart.

So, Uncle A’s had “normal” episodes, which doesn’t help explain the fraught, lonely man I saw last week.

The one who asked me to sew a hem on the chair cover (the same one from 1971), and then patiently collected the bits of discarded string in an old pill bottle just “in case” I wanted to reuse them for something. The one who talked baby-talk to my dog, but returned my “I love you” with a quick “Yep, OK.” The one whose arms hung at his side when I hugged him, but then ran after my car to tell me to be careful.

It doesn’t explain it at all, which makes me wonder when he crossed that line? The line that divides possibility from resignation. I guess more immediately, as someone who is an isolationist and independent to a fault, I wonder what I can do to ensure that I vnever cross that line.

I know how Uncle A would answer that question: You can do what you want to do; I’m gonna follow the go-go dancer.

In the Comments section, tell me if you have an Uncle A type person in your life.