A Busy Week Ahead....

It is funny how the whole house smells like fermenting blackberries now.
I just wanted to point that out at the onset of our communicate.

Grandmother Agnes' "girl" doesn't look very well.  It seems that anyone around Agnes does not last for very long in this life (as opposed to herself).  The men are most certainly all gone. And even my dear Chas has not been looking very well lately.

I worry about my Timmy so at times like these; hopefully he will escape the Dixon curse, what with his testicles and all.

Harp lessons tomorrow, with Victor  Espinola of whom I am reliably informed is the best harpist in the world.  I agree that I would like to proceed with my music, but Vicki always insists upon performing scales in the nude. I don't mind this, I do have a firm grip on the artistic process, but why must he be nude also?  This is a question that I would really like my Timmy's opinion on.

Demi, the Cleveland Museum of Art's  event planner called today, and he wanted to know if I was available next Wednesday, as there seems to be too many children for my best friend, Martha to handle.
I really don't know how she does it.  Demi always calls me when they are in a pinch,  and I am always willing to give my best when friends are in  a pinch.  Besides, Chas is off in SF in the capable hands of Bruce, and the liquor cabinet is full.

I really must find out the name of Agnes' girl before she passes, quite the shame really, ordering flowers for "Agnes's Girl".

Nighty night,
N

A Husband in Good Hands.

Well it is almost midnight on Monday, and practically a new day!

And yes, dear reader, the blackberries that Grandmother Agnes' girl picked out in Streetsboro were the plumpest and sweetest ever!  Her girl took them down to the basement for me (I feel funny calling her a "girl" as she is at the very least, fifteen years my senior, I think her name is Katiana), I followed her down, in my own good time, and we dumped them right into the crocks, three of six!  I suppose I'll have to do some more thinking about this by next Sunday, as it will be time to switch to the second step of fermentation.

As we made our way back upstairs I caught a brief glimpse of my husband kissing his grandmother before his cell-phone rang.  It seems that no sooner that my Chas comes home, that he has to go off on another business venture.  Don't be alarmed, this is my life, I am well worn to it, and even Agnes gave a knowledgeable nod of approval.  Actually I was quite happy to hear that he was flying to San Francisco again, where he goes very often.
It really is very nice and I don't worry so, because he always rents a suite at a fine hotel, and bothers to call my best friend Martha's son, Bruce.  You should see the Amex bills, oh my, those two have such a wonderful time when they are together!
But don't tell Martha, Chas says that she will think that he is being too benevolent to her son, that she herself,  professes is her, "wild child".
So mums the word!  & Let those two have fun! (I've always found Martha's Bruce to be a very sensible man, but then, her life is so complicated). I do so miss mommy's Timmy.

Well, dear readers,  we restock the liquor cabinet on Tuesdays.  Zagara's truck is coming at the crack of noon,  and I have no idea where Gonzolas, my sixteen year old is, so I may have to take the delivery myself. I should probably have a few drinks & go to bed.

Nighty-night,
N

I Awoke With a Start!

To the telephone's ghastly ring...
Who on earth could be calling at ten a.m. ?
There are only two possible answers to this question:  One, there is a problem with one of the manufacturing plants in China. Or, two, it is my husband, Chas's, grandmother, Ms. Agnes Dixon. Ninety-eight years old and still a thorn in the side of anyone that crosses her path, including the dead.  And so when the phone ceased to ring via voicemail, I decided, through the haze, that breakfast was in order.

Breakfast for me is a science; one slice of Hollywood bread, toasted and dry, and an amber moon.  After the yolk slid down my throat, I called the voicemail.

It was Agnes, and it seems that she had sent her "girl", to picking blackberries yesterday, and that she and her girl would be over at one, promptly, to force said blackberries on yours truly.  Something about Jell-o or jelly or jam.  The amber moon had not yet taken effect.

Anyway, dearest reader, I was hoping to tell you about my two other children and my husband today, however, Grandmother Agnes is on her way and I know better than to get in her way.

I am many things, but a stupid woman is not one of them.  On the bright side, the liquor cabinet is still full, and a visit with Agnes will definitely take my mind off of the whole Shaker Heights/ Tway wedding thing.

And I do like blackberries, brandy perhaps?

N

A Mother's Angst, Ohio Style-

My Dearest readers.

I thought that I  was very proud of myself for starting a blog as my Timmy shrieked that I should do on his way out of my bourbon laden, bucolic life.  And then I realized that that wasn't it at all. I am troubled by the fact that the country club klan simply dissmissed me from the wedding this weekend of Suzette and Sheldon Tway.
This I do not understand as I have scrubbed them both, as children, repeatedly, between bourbons.  I watched their pubic hair grow for christ's sake & gave them free harp lessons...

Honestly, Suzette with one "Z", What on God's green earth could her mother have been thinking?
Perhaps I just assumed that I would be invited?
So what?
My husband made our wealth off of designing sex toys and tasty oils & lubricants. Does this make me a presumptuous person?

Some People.

At times like this, I think about my Timmy....
Where he is, Who he is, and if he misses mixing mommies drinks as much as I miss him mixing my drinks....
Somehow, they just don't taste the same.

Do the best you can, my dears....
I'll be back as soon as I freshen-up!

N

Out of Loneliness and Out of a Sincere Desire to Give; I Therewith Consecrate This Blog for the Lonely.

My best neighbor, Martha, of whom I can only say, had the kindness to loan me a screwdriver when I first moved into this house in Shaker Heights, Ohio, at a time when I was in need.  Anyway, as Martha walked down the drive to collect the mail the other day, I couldn't help but overhear her mutter the word "blog".  I was not evesdropping, I was simply out in my dungerees & gloves getting rid of the poison ivy (hopefully from the roots), and didn't want to call attention to myself.

But this got me to thinking about what my eldest child, Timmy told me one time:  "Mother", he said, "You have so much sloppy loving, you should spread it around as far as it will go."
Then he said, "For fucks sake, what drips on the floor could feed the animals on death row of the ASPCA for a year."  And right after the storm door slammed shut, some eighteen months ago, he shrieked out, "Start a Blog!".....

So, dear reader, when I heard my best friend Martha mutter the word "Blog", I took that as a sign from the Almighty that I should do just that.

And now you know a little bit about me, and please if you desire to comment, please address me as Nita, as is common amongst friends.

Here is a Photograph of my lovely home-

I wonder where my Timmy is and what he is doing, occasionally, between bourbons.