Saturday Morning

Still ambivalent on which direction to turn the truck. Still quasi-obsessing over the camper van across the street. Trading the battered old Boy Toy in on a more sensible vehicle has been on the possibility list since YS lost interest in the landscaping biz which would have used the truck as it was designed to be used. Adding the FIL's cowboy caddilac to the Homestead fleet bumped up the sensibility a notch or two, but it still hasn't made it to the top of the list.

The vehicle I would most like to trade Boy Toy in for is a river boat. Hey, a girl's gotta have her dreams. I dream the dream but I freeze up every time I approach a Marina. The private boats I have boarded so far we fuck pads. I didn't get that name for them until a few years after I stopped trying to unlock the mystery of marinas. Those fuck demands are a bastard on a bitch.

Is another batch of suppressed memories boiling to the surface? Dunno. If so, it feels like a gentle boil.

The big for sure is that I am sitting with an arc of marinas over my head. Lake Michigan to the left of me, Lake Huron to the right of me and a finger of Lake Superior overhead.

The Southward tug is still quite intense. Worry about my GK's continues with a sense that I can only further the growing dysfunction at this stage. Their parents have been married almost four years now. Their cycles are showing and I amnae confident of my part in those cycles. I crave the family grounding but don't much trust the grounding elements. The expectations of the middle-aged children are far from clear. Hubby's expectations are far more clear to me, but our daily lives are still quite separate, even at the Homestead. His beekeeping career is already sliding neatly in to the hours he has been using for IT Management. There's a job for me, if I want it. Job description vague.

Sorting. . .

The strongest tug of the moment is toward the thumb of Michigan state, where political delusions place a National boundary through the center of Lake Huron.