Painting the bricks.

Went to dinner and a show last night with the ever lovely best babe and duchess. Started with a exceedingly alcoholic drink as big as my head while I waited for them and followed up with a burger and folk music. The companionship as always was excellent. The burger was good and sloppy. In some ways the music was too. The artist in question, Garnet Rogers, seems to impart many personalities into his songs. That's a very good thing. Sometimes he's acoustic and mellow, or acoustic and intense. Sometimes, however, he is electric and heavy on the echo, reverb - whatever you call the loud mushy mingling of sounds. That, I decided fairly quickly, I could have done without. He has a wonderful rich voice. He sings words that are frequently poetry. And I had real trouble even hearing his voice under the electric guitar techniques he was using. No regrets, there were songs in there that were real treasures just a vague feeling of dissatisfaction for what it could have been.

The drive home with the best babe was full of fine conversation as well. At one point the oft used query "when did I become my mother" was uttered. A fine introspective jumping off point. I was thinking on it this morning. I've often mused on my lack of dreams. I was thinking on my parents. If they had dreams, they didn't share them. Their upbringing was during the Depression. Our little corner colonial with the two car garage was their big dream. They had good jobs, a suburban home, and some money to take a vacation and send their youngest kids to college. From their roots that was a big dream. That was what it was all about for them, no wonder I was never encouraged to reach for any more. By those standards I've maintained or even slightly bettered the dream, it's just that for me it's a bit like the baseline. I'm left feeling just slightly dissatisfied with the whole thing. Like I should have been reaching for something more.

At work the "throw it overboard and see if it swims" implementation continues. Unfortunately the users who see me as a life preserver don't realize I'm just bobbing around like everyone else. I was just one little piece of the project and I definitely don't have the answers. I do what I can but I'm feeling terribly inadequate.

At home the boy is exceptionally clingy. Last night he offered to give me "all the money he has" if I would stay home. Silly little man seems to have forgotten that all the money he has started out in my wallet. Last weekend we went out to buy a suit for a wedding. My sis had offered her son's 14 husky and I declined. My 8 year old could not possibly wear something that large. OOPS. Seems my barrel of a boy is perfectly a size 12 except his waist. After much trial and error I squoze his middle into, you guessed it a 14 husky. The crotch hangs a little low, but not as badly as the 16 which is what fit his waist the best. Now I just have to hem 4 inches or so of extra trouser leg. What we did, however was buy separates, so the jacket doesn't hang down completely over his hands (which the 14 jacket did). Hopefully he'll be stylin'. Luckily it was all on sale!

Seems lately the small dog is exceptionally clingy as well. He seems to have allergies and wants nearly continuous scratchies. For a number of reasons I've been obliging as often as I can. First he is so cute and cuddly. And elderly. I'm dealing with the fact he won't last forever. Some of his test results have been off the charts for the last couple years and eventually it's going to catch up with him. Finally the poor little neighbor dog inspires me. Rocky dog lost his dog buddy Nikki to old age last week. Now he is so lonely he howls. When I go over to pet him he is humble and so very sad. It makes me love my little Dodger all the more attentively since no fuzzy should have to beg and howl for love from their people. (Moreso now after Yvonne's loss.)

The new highway near my house finally opened last week. An amazing feat since it's been on the books for 30 plus years. We've watched the process with interest. Personally I have been heartily ridiculing the strange piecemeal sound walls. We have the moulded white bricklike concrete, the molded multicolored brick concrete and the expensive decorative "picture walls". They spent like $200K on scenes of water and trees and geese which if we are doing our driving correctly, we will never actually look at. As I drove the road several times last week it struck me that some of the brick walls were not distinct pieces like I previously thought. Turns out the multicolored brick walls are a fancy paint job. Some underpaid immigrant laborer sprays on a white "mortar" color then two more go through and randomly (or not, I haven't studied it that closely) paint different colors on the molded brick shaped concrete. It's attractive, but there's vaguely unsettling about taking that much effort on sound walls. Especially with paint which won't last that long in the grand scheme of things. Makes me feel even more badly for the houses whose back yard face the walls, they didn't get fancy bricks they got a particularly disturbing shade of brown paint instead.