The Father is in denial. He really can’t believe that I am making the office back into my little room of my own.

Tonight during dinner, it somehow came up that The Father would love to have a Ferrari. Baby, I said, go up to my little room and get that red car.

The Father’s toy Ferrari, which has sat in the back of a very high cupboard next to a porcelain Thumper for about 12 years. Ok, not 12 years. For a long time. I found it today as I cleared out the high cupboards, stacking my quilt materials in neat little piles.

As he saw it, he said- rather sadly- now there is no place for my things.

Eh, I thought – but of course did not say- tough titty.

A girl has to do what a girl has to do.

Like that fool bed that I could not live without, I have found the chaise for my little room of my own.

I know, millions of children in poor countries die from simple things like putrid water.

I cannot seem to avoid being so shallow.

I want this chaise and, well, I shall most likely get it.

Long ago and far away, the rebuilding of our happy home included a small room just for me : a little room of my own.

Over time, The Father parked his computer in here, the Christmas decorations fill all of the top cupboards and the bookshelves, well, I do believe that one contains my books.

The Barbie is not mine, I assure you.

This summer, I did a lot of thinking, as we drove those zillion of miles across America and many things became clear to me, many things that I wanted to…well…change in my life. A real big one is to get this stinkin’ house organized.

Now, once The Father bought a laptop and Mr. Chez Vous busted his old computer, there is only one computer in this, my supposed little room of my own : mine.

Yesterday, The Girl helped me drag an old army footlocker out of the little attic- so old, in fact, that it is made of wood. We tossed down my collection of coolie hats ( shoot me or simply make my life easier and give me the politically correct term for these suckers). My batik of Ganesha, the stacked set of red rice baskets, my two hanging brass lamps.

I bought a loose leaf note book today, and began taking measurements of windows, making lists of repairs we needed, of must buys.

And this evening, on the way home from The Boy’s keyboard lesson, I told The Father that I had emptied out a few drawers downstairs and would be clearing out more soon. I told him that I wanted his stuff out of my room.

Looking a wee bit hurt, he asked me in a rather gentle voice, even my Dik Trom books ?

Yup, yup, yup, I replied. And your comic books as well.

This is my room, my little room of my own.

While it shall take me months and months and months to fix the damage here, the more astute visitor may- or may not have- noticed a startling change ( besides all the black) : up there at the top, there is a contact button. And it works !

Do you know what this means ? Well, outside of the obvious – that my spam shall jump from 100 a day to roughly about 4000 a day( oh ! And I do so want a bigger dick …) you can contact me on the side, as it were. Now, rumor has it ( read : Julie) that the password now works. Please feel free to ask for it. Should you sign your name as Roloph the c*nt licker, I most likely shall ignore you. In general, though, I have a vague idea of who comes by often, both publicly and shyly.

In return, it would just be spiffy if you could let me know if the password works and if the images are indeed blocked at the Robert Kerlin place.

Back to September, 2002….

I am beginning to harbor the niggling suspicion that the celebration of Oma and Opa’s 50th wedding anniversary is going to take just about that long :

50 years.

Good News :

I’m already caught up to September, 2002.

Bad News :

I’m already caught up to September, 2002.

And listening to this too many times.

Yesterday while reading Ode On A Grecian Urn, I recalled how I have often taken the line ˜Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. as one of those basic truths of the Universe.

Until last night. Captured forever in youth and beauty, how on earth can the Attic Shape know this to be a universal truth.

How can the Attic Shape know what is revealed when beauty is gone ?

My Henny- Penny reaction to the various stresses of the past few months has led to a few kilos packing their bags and blowing this joint.

This is a bit of a plus point, as tomorrow Rock arrives for a visit.

The down side of losing weight at my age is this : most of the weight seems to have left from my wrists, rather than from some more, oh, could – be- alluring parts of my body.

Yup, I feel like the kid who stuck out a chicken bone to the old witch, when she wanted to see if he had fattened up any.

Dainty wrists, high one every woman’s list of must haves.

Last night at about 11, I carried Jim over to her food bowls. Supporting her, I brought a fingerful of food to her mouth. She was hungry and ate a bit out of her bowl. I did the same with her milk, but she didn’t want any milk. She did drink some water, though.

Then I placed her on her cushion.

I found her dead this morning, just as I had left her.

At least 22 years old, Jimmy died in the manner that we had hoped for. The Vet had assured us all along that she was in no pain and I did not want to have her killed just because I was tired of cleaning up cat piss.

Jimmy died in her sleep, at home, after many years of tender care by us all.

While we are all sad, the edges are blunted by this knowledge: that we took the very best care of her that we could, for many years.

By nature a good sport, The Father took me to a garden center today. Seeing how Spring was so late, I am guessing that we shall have at least two months of pleasant weather and, well, I did so want a replacement for all of the Queen Anne’s Lace that I ripped out the other day and, well, the pale and brittle plants which now inhabit my hanging baskets. Hey – I’m not bitching- they took splendid care of my camellias.

At the great big old garden center, I was ambling down the aisles, looking for some sort of scented candles. Jimmy is dying. The Girl and I have found her having serious convulsions and now she has no control over her bladder at all. We don’t mind. We have a lot of old towels and as long as she purrs, we want her to die at home, with us, stroking her gently and surrounding her with love. But the kitchen simply reeks.

As I sniffed one candle after another, I heard a woman say “Wim”. For a moment, I thought back to when I worked in the greenhouse, for a fellow named Wim. “Suzanne! Is that you ?” It was indeed Wim and Yvonne, who I once, a long time ago worked for. We chatted this, we chatted that, and suddenly, I asked Wim how old he was now. 40, he replied. I had to say that when I started working for them, I was 32, and that he felt that I was far too old for the job.

This, that and the other thing, standing by the candles at the garden center. He asked about The Father, and I said, oh, he is the same. Wim said, you know, I can’t remember his face, but. gee. I remember his car. I said that nothing had changed. The Father still loves his car, an always snazzy BMW. It was almost 1.15, my pick-up time and so I said goodbye.

They were behind me at the checkout counter, and as I entered the parking lot, I saw The Father in his business – mobile and waved him over. As I loaded the plants into the trunk, he chatted with Wim.

As we drove away, we talked about Wim and Eric and the greenhouse that I had worked for for many years. Out of the blue, he asked me how I had gotten along with Wim in the past. At first, I said, oh, fine, for I can be a bit simple minded in that way. And then I remembered that it always annoyed Wim that The Father had a snazzier car than he did. In fact, at times when Wim was getting on my case, I would have The Father come and pick me up, knowing that the car would irk Wim.

I was glad to see them, I enjoyed working for them, it was a fine time for me.

But I am guessing that The Father’s fancy- schmancy car still gets under Wim’s skin.