G Time is very important to me. G is one of the first friends I made when I moved here. There’s a little cluster of folks I look back on, a cluster of friends that were just kind of waiting when I moved here. G was one of them. I used to say that, among those friends, if they were a mall, G was one of the anchor stores, like a Sears & Roebuck. Steady, true, dependable, and almost predictable, but with surprises. You know how you know when you go into a Sears that they have clothes, appliances, and really dependable products, but then there’s just some quirky something. That’s G. With her grandmother’s antique lace doilies. That’s the one that always surprises me.
G and I get along like. . . . like lovers, if lovers were a dykey lesbian and a big ol’ queer. She lets me have my drama and took all the horrid (horrid!) aspects of my former love life, and always answered the phone. But the more fun part was when I moved to town, and discovered there were (gasp!) gay bars right down from where I lived. I remember calling her one time and saying, “Did you know there’s a gay bar right behind . . . “ to which she answered, “And you have to go to work in the morning.” Buzz killer. When I moved here (and still occasionally) I would get horribly lost, and have to call G, who would ask where I was at the time. “A corner with a Wal-Greens and an Exxon” to which she would reply, “That’s everywhere!”
So, with G’s other half and two kids gone for a few days, I got to have me some G Time this week. Keep in mind, G Time has to be on her terms. She so seldom is without the maelstrom of two teenage boys & wife, that she uses their absences to catch up on stuff, lots of stuff. So G Time is shared time with her to-do list. Yesterday was a trip to a hardware store (where she ooh’d and aaah’d at all the air compressors) to buy a 3 sided sharpening stone, and a trip for some utilitarian shorts from Wal-Mart. Someday I may get her to buy clothes from a female department, but I figure it will be a reincarnation and another century. But my G and I rode down to get “the sign” as mentioned in a previous blog. Armed with a small crowbar and hammer, G strode up to the telephone pole, gave the sign 3 strong jerks and it pulled it right off the pole. That’s my G.
Today, I texted G for some lunch, but G is early to bed, early to rise, and early to eat. She was about to “set snaps on MG top. Come over.” I wasn’t sure what “set snaps” meant, but the MG is a blue convertible and we have high hopes to refurbish it one day. Or days. One project at a time. Today’s was the after-factory top that came with it. With no silly hopes of being air tight, just the hope of being able to leave it out in the rain. The top looked like it had been wadded up in the trunk since she bought the car. Sissy called and said, “So she’s doing most all the work and you’re watching?” I thought it was pretty hateful. Accurate maybe. You know how I like to say, “Just because we’re all thinking it doesn’t mean we have to say it.” Besides, if anybody’s going to punch a permanent hole in the wrong spot of a hard to find convertible top, it should be the owner. All the snaps and snooks are in place (one thing isn’t a snap, I’m not sure what it’s called) and the top is on the car. She’s waiting on an air filter to come in this week, only $4 but never on the shelf. Both seats are currently in, and it’s running with a license tag. That could be a first.
After the MG project, we ran up the street to this little sidewalk café I forget about, but has really great food, and an even better patio. We had a little universe-surprise in the way of a Sunday afternoon musician. A songstress, I’d say mid 20’s with long dreadlocks. I hate dreadlocks, but we were both kind of enchanted by her. “Only here” we said could you find a black singer, singing bluegrass music. No blues. Not jazz. Not R&B. Bluegrass. Very-Ricky-Skaggs bluegrass. She sang and sang and sang, and a boy with beautiful brown hair joined her playing a mandolin. She would tell us about when she wrote the songs (“I wrote this one while I was playing on the street in Berkley” or “This one I wrote about my nanny who took care of us growing up”). G had just recently made the comment “Only here” to which I then said, “A nanny?” So she sang on a beautiful Sunday afternoon a repertoire of self written blue grass songs. Sometimes, I couldn’t understand the words, but understood the melody or the tone. My favorite was the “happy love song” written in Berkley, but another favorite was, “She was in my bed, she was in my bed, that bitch was in my bed.” I think another Sunday may find us on that patio again.
What a perfect way and a perfect day to spend some G time.
G and I get along like. . . . like lovers, if lovers were a dykey lesbian and a big ol’ queer. She lets me have my drama and took all the horrid (horrid!) aspects of my former love life, and always answered the phone. But the more fun part was when I moved to town, and discovered there were (gasp!) gay bars right down from where I lived. I remember calling her one time and saying, “Did you know there’s a gay bar right behind . . . “ to which she answered, “And you have to go to work in the morning.” Buzz killer. When I moved here (and still occasionally) I would get horribly lost, and have to call G, who would ask where I was at the time. “A corner with a Wal-Greens and an Exxon” to which she would reply, “That’s everywhere!”
So, with G’s other half and two kids gone for a few days, I got to have me some G Time this week. Keep in mind, G Time has to be on her terms. She so seldom is without the maelstrom of two teenage boys & wife, that she uses their absences to catch up on stuff, lots of stuff. So G Time is shared time with her to-do list. Yesterday was a trip to a hardware store (where she ooh’d and aaah’d at all the air compressors) to buy a 3 sided sharpening stone, and a trip for some utilitarian shorts from Wal-Mart. Someday I may get her to buy clothes from a female department, but I figure it will be a reincarnation and another century. But my G and I rode down to get “the sign” as mentioned in a previous blog. Armed with a small crowbar and hammer, G strode up to the telephone pole, gave the sign 3 strong jerks and it pulled it right off the pole. That’s my G.
Today, I texted G for some lunch, but G is early to bed, early to rise, and early to eat. She was about to “set snaps on MG top. Come over.” I wasn’t sure what “set snaps” meant, but the MG is a blue convertible and we have high hopes to refurbish it one day. Or days. One project at a time. Today’s was the after-factory top that came with it. With no silly hopes of being air tight, just the hope of being able to leave it out in the rain. The top looked like it had been wadded up in the trunk since she bought the car. Sissy called and said, “So she’s doing most all the work and you’re watching?” I thought it was pretty hateful. Accurate maybe. You know how I like to say, “Just because we’re all thinking it doesn’t mean we have to say it.” Besides, if anybody’s going to punch a permanent hole in the wrong spot of a hard to find convertible top, it should be the owner. All the snaps and snooks are in place (one thing isn’t a snap, I’m not sure what it’s called) and the top is on the car. She’s waiting on an air filter to come in this week, only $4 but never on the shelf. Both seats are currently in, and it’s running with a license tag. That could be a first.
After the MG project, we ran up the street to this little sidewalk café I forget about, but has really great food, and an even better patio. We had a little universe-surprise in the way of a Sunday afternoon musician. A songstress, I’d say mid 20’s with long dreadlocks. I hate dreadlocks, but we were both kind of enchanted by her. “Only here” we said could you find a black singer, singing bluegrass music. No blues. Not jazz. Not R&B. Bluegrass. Very-Ricky-Skaggs bluegrass. She sang and sang and sang, and a boy with beautiful brown hair joined her playing a mandolin. She would tell us about when she wrote the songs (“I wrote this one while I was playing on the street in Berkley” or “This one I wrote about my nanny who took care of us growing up”). G had just recently made the comment “Only here” to which I then said, “A nanny?” So she sang on a beautiful Sunday afternoon a repertoire of self written blue grass songs. Sometimes, I couldn’t understand the words, but understood the melody or the tone. My favorite was the “happy love song” written in Berkley, but another favorite was, “She was in my bed, she was in my bed, that bitch was in my bed.” I think another Sunday may find us on that patio again.
What a perfect way and a perfect day to spend some G time.
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