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Can’t seem to identify these buggers, er, butters?

A day well spent at the Pacific Science Center for my dad’s birthday this past summer. His directive last year: MEAT. Satisfied with a trip out for a little rodizio dining where he was presented with no less than a veritable cornucopia of meat, and where I learned a new phrase: Wild boar, NO!

This year’s request: to visit fellow royalty. Ba-dum-ch. So, off to Tut- that’d be King- we went with all things natural and celestial included in the package. Poked sheep’s brains, prodded anemones (gently), and pondered the sarcophagus for a cat. We weighed in on Mars, and then there was my particular highlight, the butterfly house.


You hot? Cuz I’m bothered.

Who (hoo), me? I present the owl butterfly. All eyes and wings, much like Bean who flew the coop in months past. Her happy nuptials led her from my Fairways to the Fox Run where there’s history. Green River killer history. A body found buried in the woods where I once took walks from time to time. The victim’s name, mine. Her mother’s name, my mother’s name. The killer’s birthday, mine. Before his capture, I regularly delivered pizza to his neighborhood, quite possibly to his home, though that’s a morbid curiosity I won’t pursue in confirming as it seems a bit disrespectful to the victims somehow. I much prefer happy parallels.

No Gray

And with that, I now live on my own. Firsts for everything, and though this has been a desired first for the sheer experience of it, I was fearful of finding myself in perpetual anticipation of a key in the front door, as I sometimes was when waiting for people to arrive home in times prior. Thrilled to find that’s not the case at all. And bonus, the one nagging worry- that with the new season and the often lovely darkness it brings, fear would encroach in early mornings while preparing for the day ahead fueled by the knowledge that no one resides a room or two away- was quieted by the realization that Bean, too, now gets ready by herself, Shane long gone to work hours before. Alone. Together.

Grouse, grouse, grumble, grumble.

“Nobody cares about anything except what you can do for them.” Spoken on screen in a recent film. Don’t let this be true, she pleads from a stance heavy with idealism. The wonder and beauty of the butterfly house was somewhat compromised by the bits of butterfly found lying about damaged from the constant source of public passing through the place. The above quote would rightly have fit that visit had it not been for a moment on the path when everyone froze in deference to a small child concerned with safely relocating a precariously perched fluttering fly from her father’s pant leg to a nearby branch. Teach the children well.


Watcha, watcha, watcha want? Want.

The Mummy. Can’t help but think of it in relation to scarabs. Pretty little things. Or sturdy? Holy beetle! Loved the exploration, history, foreign lands and witty banter to behold along with the undeniable chemistry of the two main characters (not the mummy). The running joke is that I’m graced with a primo parking spot wherever I may roam. Like The Truman Show in reverse, cars and trucks alike part ways revealing a cavernous space in which to rest my wheels. In front. Always. Without fail. Except that one time. Yeah, can I trade that in for some of that big screen sweeping escapade ala le Mummy sans le mummy once again? It’s a le and a sigh.


Comfortably dumb.

Not me, the SOUP! I’ve been an overly booked n’ busy woman, and now I’m plain tired. Good thing new bedding awaits. But about that soup. Dilemma unfolding in the moment- flipped a cup of delicious garlic bisque soup from Infinite Soups right outta my hands. Le s-plat! Direct hit? Cell phone. Secondary hit? Paperwork for a design project. Friday … what’s the date tomorrow … nope. Light’s out on the phone currently. Turning it off, burying it in a bowl of rice. Fingers crossed. Makes typing a challenge. Oh well, perdy flowers.


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