Connected, not connected. This is the way it goes.

We've reached the thin end of things again where there's more month than money. MathMan and I drive past  billboard shrieking the current lottery amounts in garish colors.

Me: Let's just buy a lottery ticket. A winning one.

(The typical silence that follows my deep thoughts.)

Me, again: Of course, winning the lottery creates its own problems....but I could use a new set of problems.

********

Let's make using the cliche "kick the can down the road" in a political context punishable by a kick to the nutsack. Wait, no, let's make any use of cliches or folksy-speak in a political context punishable by a kick to the nutsack. Recycle that can, get away from the pig with that lipstick, and compost those tea leaves already.

As for the nutsackless, kneecap them. Unless they're women, then just leave them alone. Living in this oppressive patriarchy is punishment enough.

Also: Spurs job creation. Nutsack kickers need jobs, too.

********

Last night I called to see if my parents were keeping an eye on the weather as tornado warnings spread across Indiana. My dad, the man who watches The Weather Channel for entertainment, answered the phone. I asked if they were prepared for bad weather.

"What? No! We're watching the Reds game."

Me in an aside to MathMan who is next to me on the bed with his laptop propped on his knees, "Of course they're not prepared. They're watching the Reds game."

MathMan doesn't take his eyes off the laptop screen. His laptop is the third person in our love triangle. "They've got bigger worries than the weather. The Reds just blew a lead in extra innings."

I've been handed off. Mother is on the phone now. "They're in the eleventh inning. Is everything okay there?"

"We're fine, I was just checking on you guys." My eyes are trained on the red triangles stretching along the Ohio Valley that the Weather Channel woman is rubbing her hand over.

"Oh, we're okay. Dad, did Ryan Howard just get a hit?" It always perplexed me a little when my mother called my father "Dad." Did she do that even after we kids moved out?

"Well, I just wanted to see how things were there." The Weather Channel was playing their elevator music in the background. I'd rather watch the Reds' game, too.

Mother spoke again. We were back to the weather evidently. "You know, the last time the tornado sirens went off at night, we didn't hear them."

I sat up straighter. "No, I didn't know. Maybe the two of you should just sleep in the bathtub." In a whispered aside to MathMan, "I don't want to dig them out of the rubble, do you?"

"I've got to work the rest of this week." He's so practical.

My mom again. "The Reds were playing like little leaguers but now they're playing like first graders."

"Next thing you know, you'll be calling them Fetus Leaguers," I said.

My mother laughed. "Fetus Leaguers," she repeated.

I nudged MathMan. "Write down this date. I made my mother laugh."

"Oh, I'm just really tired. That's why I laughed."

So nevermind.

This. This is why I am prone to shouting at my children how wonderful, funny, creative, beautiful, intelligent and talented they are. This is why I overuse the word proud.

*********

Yesterday, I drove toward the sun and thought about the choices we make about the people we love. Why some people make better friends than lovers, why some make betters mates than lovers, how some passions never burn out while others fade away. How some choices aren't ours to make. How one little change in the arc of a story - a life story or one imagined - can change all the outcomes. How the light reflecting off the hood of the car entices me to stare at it. A bad idea when one is supposed to be paying attention to oncoming traffic. Like so many enticing things. Shiny but dangerous.

********

I'm considering self-publishing. Playing by the rules has been a loser game for me in other aspects of my working life so maybe I should try a different approach.

********

I'm finishing up The Memory Palace by Mira Bartok. I love her straightforward writing. And the story itself is so compelling.  I was excited to see the author is following me on Twitter, but aside from the ego boost that is, there's a practical element to it. Mira runs miraslist. Mira's List is "a resource for artists, writers, composers, and others in the arts providing up to date information, links and artist interviews, deadlines for grants, fellowships and international residencies. Money, time and a place to create."

Hey you, creative types, visit there and get the RSS feed. You never know where the good stuff is going to come from next.

A bientot.