Can we head back to Lisbon for coffee?


Remind dievca that she loves her parents dearly, ok?

she had to lay down the law with her Dad that she’s not in town just to jump and do his bidding. she’s going to sit down and have dinner like a normal human being. If there is a wet ring on the table from condensation on a glass? Well, that will just have to wait until she’s finished eating and chatting with her Mother.

dievca offered her Dad two options:

  1. Wait patiently until everyone is finished eating and have faith it will be cleaned up.
  2. Get up with the walker, go and get a towel and wipe the ring.

I understand with age you feel like you lose control and your memory is short…

But, a water ring on a melamine table is not an emergency, nor is buying extra pads for Mom, nor is folding the towels from a load that just finished in the dryer, nor is adjusting the peepee pad so it hangs off the side of the bed, nor is putting your applesauce container in the fridge when we haven’t finished eating, nor is putting Mom to bed just because you want to go to bed.

I only have two hands for removing dishes from the dining table. Some of the dishes will have to stay on the table until I can walk back and get them. 

If I haven’t left the house in a car, then I haven’t picked up Mom’s pee pads.

Yes, I got the mail and the newspapers. You’ve asked me four times already. Why don’t you sit on the sofa and read them, so you don’t have to ask me again?

I am really trying to remember that I am going to be the same way in about 40 years.
Let us hope I’ll be the easy-going elderly person holding a glass of wine. ~doubt it~


A Dream of Summer

BLAND as the morning breath of June
The southwest breezes play;
And, through its haze, the winter noon
Seems warm as summer’s day.
The snow-plumed Angel of the North
Has dropped his icy spear;
Again the mossy earth looks forth,
Again the streams gush clear.

The fox his hillside cell forsakes,
The muskrat leaves his nook,
The bluebird in the meadow brakes
Is singing with the brook.
“Bear up, O Mother Nature!” cry
Bird, breeze, and streamlet free;
“Our winter voices prophesy
Of summer days to thee!”

So, in those winters of the soul,
By bitter blasts and drear
O’erswept from Memory’s frozen pole,
Will sunny days appear.
Reviving Hope and Faith, they show
The soul its living powers,
And how beneath the winter’s snow
Lie germs of summer flowers!

The Night is mother of the Day,
The Winter of the Spring,
And ever upon old Decay
The greenest mosses cling.
Behind the cloud the starlight lurks,
Through showers the sunbeams fall;
For God, who loveth all His works,
Has left His hope with all!

John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892)


A short note.

SubmissiveMaster,

Just letting you know — I’m starting to dream submissive, again. It’s been awhile. It feels good.

dievča