Baxter was missing when I arrived home today.  Margo greeted me at the door – Bax’s regular occupation.  It was odd, but I really thought nothing of it until I noticed that no large grey tiger striped blob lounged on the sun-warmed wooden floor of the dining room, nor curled contentedly in the soft down blanket covered bed, nor was hidden safely behind his favorite WUC (world’s ugliest chair).  An hour of searching and calling later and I knew my baby boy was NOT in the house where he belonged.  Roommates claimed no knowledge of the disappearance.  Liars, but there you have it.  I canvassed the neighborhood, dread a white-hot ball of lead in the belly.  I feared most of all a fly covered carcass, tossed aside by a cruel rubber tire.   I asked the next door neighbors who play music too loudly at odd hours of the night if they’d seen a fat grey cat.  I cringed to limit his description so, but Baxter IS big-bonedand grey, hard to miss.  So easily missed, so longed for once missed.  Hours passed and still I called.  My path crossed those of my neighbors who had taken up teh rallying cry — the reward offered didn’t hurt.  Finally, defeated, I returned home.  Struck by inspiration and the realization that he couldn’t have possibly cleared the front fence, I went into the back yard — the domain of my basement dweling neighbors.  And there I called, hope almost lost.  And there I heard an answering yowl.  A frustrated, hungry, BEAUTIFUL yowl.  From under the house.  THE HOUSE.  Baxter’s nose peeked out from a crack in the foundation.  I knew his voice and I knew his nose.  My baby boy, trapped by brick and wood and mortor.  I clawed at the crack, tore a chunk from the foundation and cleared the space for beloved whiskers to push through and brush my fingertips.  But the foundation would not give enough, so I found a vent.  Wood and wire ripped from cement.   Baxter was mine again and fed a fine meal of tuna for his misadventure. 

He rests on my lap as I type.  Warm, loved, home.

My mood lingers on remembrance and succumbs to mourning one long lost:

Papa – my first love. He will always smell of tobacco and oranges in my memory. My grandfather, always with flecks of grey ash littering his fresh pressed short-sleeved dress shirt and a sweat stain rimming the inside edge of his straw fedora.  Pale blue eyes behind thick yellowed glass grew warm at each correctly answered query on animals and geography; his prize pupil he’d call me.  Pockets of ugly brown slacks were treasure troves of caramelized coconut and watermelon flavored hard candies. He salted the real melon and laughed at my nose, wrinkled in astonished disgust. 

My first sip of coffee came from his overly white and sweetened mug; my first sip of beer an accidental taste of Bud in a red plastic cup sat carelessly close to my own of apple juice – an innocent mistake he guffawed over for what seemed like hours as I sputtered in distaste.

And always, Papa, with his slim brown cigarettes and ink stained fingertips.  We walked orange groves together, summer upon summer while the scents of tobacco and oranges grew heavy on sun rippened air.

He remains my ideal of care and craze, insanity and genius.  My Papa taught me wonder and showed me love. 

Fifteen years gone, I miss him still.

7:30am – left house to start series of inspects.

12:00pm – drove to office thinking “f*#@, minimum 7hrs until I’m off the clock” yawning the entire way.

7:30pm – left office heading to Joe’s Crab Shack for weak margaritas and ok shrimp.

12hrs out of 24 spent at work is way too damn much. 

I sat at a red light on the way to breakfast this morning and watched an elderly gentleman in a crumpled beige suit cross the street.  There was nothing at all remarkable about him, save that he wore a red life jacket over his Sunday best.  “Huh,” I thought to myself, “At least he’s always prepared for a flash flood.”  Then the light blinked green, and I drove away. 

But he lingered with me throughout the day.  Just the statement he made, walking down the street well prepared against what tide might come.  Every minute of every day we can drown in a multitude of sorrows, stresses, and worries.  It’s a good idea to brace oneself against the inevitable waves of life.  Against the threat of loneliness, pain, failure, and other terrors, my connections to amazing people who love and care for me keep my head above water.

Of course, in addition to friends, I’d recommend a good helmet.  Life’s tough, protect the head. 

I ate a bowl of double chocolate brownie icecream for dinner and had a glass of red wine for dessert.  Am currently perfectly content.

My niece’s sweet baby voice babbled “I love you, Aunt Manda” over 3600 miles of empty air.  I cried all the way home.

 I heart this band, and this video makes me squee:

After a very early morning wake up (3:30am, phone rings, the taxi’s outside waiting…Mr. Taxi Driver should be grateful I woke up enough to brush my teeth before climbing in and grunting “arrrport”) off I flew to sunny climes. 

My welcome wagon consisted of Lern, Madi & Kenz.  Nothing says love like two kids surgically attaching themselves to each hip and not budging for 24 hours.  They had to unglue for school, but after that, all bets were off.  This must be what athletes and celebrities feel when their adoring fans fling themselves at their feet. 

Tonight, my sister and I sat by the pool while the girls splashed.  A glass of white wine mellowed the edges and a soft breeze made everything soft and balmy.  The palms swayed, and spanish moss dripping from dignified oaks whispered.  And I thought to myself, this FL girl is home.

As Mama Erica pointed out (in a very scolding tone), it’s been a long while since I’ve posted anything.  So here’s a checklist of everything you should now about that long while:

January…

*I froze – cold sucks, wet cold sucks even worse.

*I moved to the Couve, my roommates are fantastic: I never see them.

*Work was straight-jacket crazy…mondo hours, stressed Manda, all around bad news.

February…

*My friend Jbopp dragged me to a Lacrosse — a new love discovered. 

*I was rearended on the Ross Island bridge heading toward Sellwood, Jbopp was riding shotgun.  Irony, thy name is two insurance adjusters getting the smackdown on an infamously dangerous bridge. 

*Adventure time on the Portland coast – someone who shall remain nameless drove a rented 2wheel drive Ford Focus onto the beach and got stuck in the sugar sand.  Someone else who shall also remain nameless was forced to call 911 and have Mr. Hickville-Scarypants come in his Deliverance truck to yank us out.  There are pictures, and no you can’t see them.

March…

*Scored big brownie points for finding the cutest purse ever for my sister’s birthday.  Lost pentalty points for it being late.

*Went to more lacrosse games…I heart grown men running around a field beating each other with sticks. 

*Jensen Avery Palmieri was born.  She’s my newest niece and I can’t wait to meet her. 

*Prayed while Jbopp drove us to Seattle through a freak late March snowstorm.  We arrived safely.  Amen.

April thus far…

*I was rearended on April Fool’s Day in a work vehicle by two deaf kids who are insured with the company I work for — and no, it wasn’t a joke.  It happened on a bridge.  Bridges, cars, and I aren’t on speaking terms, which is damned difficult in a city lousy with bridges and doubly damned difficult in my line of work.

*2nd to final Jax game of the season: really nasty game, flared tempers, a couple fights, and my team choked.  I’m not talking about it.

 Life to be continued…

So, I got a happy new job — lots of training, good pay, challenging work — happy time!  Downside?  12 HOUR DAYS!!!!!  I honestly didn’t think myself capable of willingly and cheefully devoting that much of myself to a job.  It’s just the time literally runs away from me.  One minute I’m walking in a half hour before clock-in, the next I’m walking out 2.5 hours post clock-out.  Kinda insane.  I feel overwhelmed, but am content in the knowledge that I’m supposed to feel overwhelmed and stupid because, well, I still don’t know what I’m doing.  And according to all my co-workers, that’s how it was for them. 

 So, job still happy fun time (except when I fall off of a truck — don’t ask, it’s not my finest moment).  Being a grown up with a grown up job can kinda blow, except when it’s exactly what you want to be doing with your grown up self.