Search me

According to How to Blog gurus, good bloggers don't say "Sorry for the lack of posts lately." So, I guess this is sorry for the lack of posts lately, and sorry for not being a good blogger.

As I've mentioned, we just bought a house, and in between moving in, unpacking, searching for just about everything I thought we'd put in a convenient place so we wouldn't have to search for it, clogged toilets and fountaining poop water, being covered in cat vomit, and miscellaneous moving tasks, I haven't had much time or opportunity for blogging (I only just re-got the Internet). Also, my son has winter break, and has the annoying habit of wanting me to actually spend time with him.

I kid, of course. I have as much fun as he does.

I did make time for Christmas decoration, but most of the house is in various states of mess, so you just get to see a corner. (Who am I kidding? It's just an excuse to show off a kid Christmas picture.)


And in the meantime, until I have more meaty posts, I'll leave you with a smattering of search terms that result in this blog. It leaves me wondering, sometimes:

Arizonawriter: Woo! People are searching for me! Or, at least, a writer in Arizona. I'll choose to believe the former.

I just made you say underwear: Well, my son made me say "I'd better see those underpants where they belong and not on your head, in thirty seconds!"

A-Z of dirty words: Um, not that kind of blog. Sorry.

Dirty words A-Z: Really, it's not!

Surprised dirty words: As in, WTF?!

Half clothed: It's not that kind of blog either.

Stupid husband: I feel your pain, anonymous searcher.

Love husband: See, it's not all bad, right?

A-Z dirtywords: Back on that, I see.

Every single word in the universe A-Z: OK, even I'm not that ambitious. Even if I was trying to find all the dirty ones.

Shorts 1892 butt: Susan B. Anthony? Clara Barton? Calamity Jane? Grover Cleveland? Seriously, I'm curious whose 1892 butt you were hoping to see.

Nothing is as boring as a writer: Thanks a lot.

Poop: Heh, heh. You said poop.

Tahmoh Penikett is HOT: Oh, yeah.

Pink puke: I hope you're not searching out of necessity, kind reader. Because my experience with pink puke was not made any more savory by the pleasing pastel shade of the projectile, lemme tell you.

I love you: Aww, thanks. Now does that love come with a comment? A link, perhaps?

I will be back tonight probably. Until then, I'm sure I'll see you all soon, dear readers, since every person in existence will be in the mall parking lot.

4 hoseys

Little bit of a family resemblance

I can't talk about my father, or my grandfather, or my great-grandfather, without becoming lost in memories of the tastes and smells of my grandparents' home in upstate New York.

Every time we visited New York, my grandparents trotted out a long-standing ritual of herding every member of the family to the driveway. The practice traditionally took place on the hottest, most humid summer day, when everyone sported oily, reflective sheens of sweat and condensation over faces and heads topped by hair frizzing out and up at odd, unpredictable angles. It was under these conditions that the ritual began, every family member grouping and regrouping for photographs. My grandparents had a cherry tree, an oak tree, a lush lawn, and a rose bush. But instead of any of these verdant backgrounds, they invariably chose the white-paneled garage door as a backdrop. About an hour into the routine, everyone would persevere with grim-faced determination, and the countenances combined with the garage gave the shots the look of police lineups. My sister and brother and I have our growth recorded in a series of mug shots.

It is in this form that four generations of Hosey men were captured on film for the first and last time. My great-grandfather, an Irish immigrant who occasionally couldn't recall that I was not my aunt but could tell me the name of the woman who gave him a blanket on the leaky boat to America. My grandfather, a talented writer with a poetic bent (which I discovered, almost by accident, on my last visit with him) who always wore blue trucker-style baseball caps he bought on trips to Arizona, perched loosely on his head so you could see through the part between the top of his head and the top of the hat. My brother, who would one day roll a car at 90 mph and survive, would be homecoming king, would join the Air Force and almost die in training and would return to be an emergency medical technician -- but who then was just my dorky little brother. And towering head and shoulders and chest above them all, my father: math prodigy, winner of every Trivial Pursuit game, commissioner of his fantasy football and baseball leagues, cracker of horrible jokes (which, I've since learned, he learned from his father), terrible but unabashed singer, larger than life in many senses. All but my brother have since passed on.

After the shots we'd talk my grandparents into a shot or two in front of the rosebush -- which were always their favorite, although we could count on mandatory mug shots on the next visit anyway -- and sit on the bench with peeling red paint in their backyard, picking cherry tomatoes from the vine. The round fruits would burst with only light pressure, spraying sweet-tangy juices into our mouths. (Or out of them, if we were really lucky. A projectile tomato bite was one of the rare treats of a New York summer afternoon.) I still only eat cherry tomatoes, although they don't taste as sweet or moist in Arizona. I don't think it's entirely in my head.

It was my grandpa's birthday December 4, the same day we were closing on our new home. Right around that time, my son was making some of the worst puns I'd ever heard.

Damn, I miss those guys.

Happy Anniversary (Or, "See, I told you I post nice things sometimes")

Dear Husband:

I could, maybe, think of ten things I hate about you. But there will be another time for snarkiness and venting. Today is not the day for that. (Most days aren't, come to that. You're infuriatingly faultless sometimes.) Today is the day for the ten, or twenty-eight things (or at least twenty-eight of the things) I love about you:

1. Your tenderness.
2. Your conviction.
3. The way you regularly change the picture on your cell phone to different shots of our son, and you obviously don't do it for "points," as I had no earthly idea you did so until last week.
4. Your forearms. I mean, wow.
5. The way you act gooey-mushy-lovey to the cat when you think no one's looking.
6. Your ability to provide for us. And not just the money (though, yeah, I love that too).
7. Your patience.
8. The fact I never secretly think I'm smarter than you.
9. The way you tolerate it when I act like I am.
10. Your unending supply of euphemisms for making the, um, beast with two backs. (There's a new one for you.)
11. When you startle me.

12. They way you get all stoked and talk at the top of your lungs when you're excited.
13. Your stupid jokes.
14. Your dedication.
15. The fact that we can play.
    
16. How you play with our son.
17. How quickly, naturally, just like that, he became OUR son.
18. Your dorky laugh.
19. The fact that we can just be together -- not as in "be together," as in just be. And when we suck at everything else, that's enough.
20. Our history. Even the bad parts. Well, most of the bad parts. Maybe not that part in the parking lot. But you know, if things hadn't happened the way they had, they wouldn't have happened the way they have. Or that's what some dorky 16-year-old told me, anyway.
21. When you walk around in sock feet.
22. How you get all competitive about everything. Have you beaten my and David's Zoo Tycoon game yet?
23. Listening to you boss people around. Come on baby, talk managerial to me.
24. Your curiosity.
25. The way you order a dish at the restaurant, as if it's really your idea, and then "ask" me if I want to "try" some.
26. The way you lie when I ask if my hair looks nice. Good form.
27. Your love.
28. You.

Happy Anniversary.