While going through things at Dad's on Saturday, I found photo albums with an abbreviated assortment of photos capturing yours truly...years ago. Not many pictures of me...years ago actually exist. I learned camera dodging early-on, and even took up my mother's habit of going through pictures as soon as we got the developed prints back and tossing the ones of myself that I didn't like—all of them. Nick has never really been shown the former me.

I'm sure he's wondered at the many times I'll see someone in passing and murmur, "I know them," never actually greeting them. They wouldn't recognize me, and the situation would feel very awkward, me having to explain who I am. The first time I flew home, half-way through my weight loss progress, my own aunt didn't even recognize me in the airport. It's a little lonely at times.

Years ago, a friend who struggled with their weight told us of a visitation she attended for a dear relative. She felt rejected and ignored looking at the poster boards of photos because there were so few of her and the aunt that she always felt closer to than her own mother. A while later, a family member came up to her all teary-eyed and apologizing profusely. "I'm sorry. I could barely find any pictures of you!" She had avoided cameras all her life.

Well, after a lot of deliberation, I decided to show Nick the pictures. He seemed to recognize my cousin Michelle quickly enough, my friends Sarah and Anna—all people he has met in person—but looking at my image, which I found myself having to point out to him, he could only say that I looked really different.

I told him just last night that it's difficult to be proud of what you accomplished when you're so ashamed of where you started. I'm almost shy to bring up my lifestyle change—even though I'd wager that I am healthier than those who have been thin naturally their entire lives—because you worry that the stamp of who you were will obliterate who you became. Ghosts.

Jared, the Subway© guy, said in interview once that when people saw him eating out, they would stare at him, waiting for him to overeat, overly eager to warn him not to finish his plate. It angered me when I read it. Ignorance...pft. Those who have been inducted to the "100 pounds club" know what it takes.

But I've done it now, shown Nick the barely recognizable face that he looks into every day. I guess I wanted to make sure he knew me first. I had nothing to worry about.

For anyone fond of the Harry Potter franchise, this is a very exciting month.

Yesterday, Nick and I decided to be smart and catch a movie at the theater from which I pre-ordered tickets for Friday's 9:30 viewing of the fifth movie in the series. Yes, I ordered tickets a month ago. (For that matter, I pre-ordered my copy of the book the day Amazon told me I could.) I spent the morning finishing my re-reading of the 6th book, and now I'm prepped to spend this coming weekend watching the movie, and the next reading the last book.

I know, I know...it seems ridiculous that I should be such a fan—it's just that I love the employ of such imagination. As we were flipping through channels last night and there some some show on dissecting the actions and behaviors of the characters, Nick started howling in disbelieving laughter—"THEY'RE CHARACTERS IN A BOOK! THEY'RE NOT REAL!" Ah, but they were written so well that at times they seem to be.

Anyway, I brought my email receipt and the card I used to purchase the tickets and they could not find my order. I told them that I knew the card had been charged and they confirmed that they had withdrawn funds for two iMax tickets, they just could not find the order. It was all very calm and polite, and I was issued two fresh tickets. We walked away, Nick saying, "Thank God this happened today and not on Friday."

Lord, can you imagine? I would have been forced to throw a tantrum.

All the kitties in my life have loved this toy, yet I hesitated getting it for Sophie. In our pre-adoption pet store shopping spree, we had gotten our new addition a fishing pole wand, and she was terrified of it for the longest time, sprinting away in an ear flattening speed whenever one of us waved it about. Every day, I would come home to find the fish forcibly removed from the wand so that she could play with the string instead.

But, after last weekend's playful display, and subsequent incident wherein our strong-jawed ward enacted the wand to break in half and chase her around the house with the line twisted around her tail, we decided that this was way too much entertainment for us to not replace the toy. Yesterday, I decided to do it, to buy her the toy that has never failed to entertain—a fishing pole suction-cupped to the door! Brilliant!

She began playing with it almost immediately and throughout the night. I heard thumping sounds from bed and knew she must be flopping into the door again—get a look at that sharp little tooth in this picture! Last Friday, grumpy, I told Nick that his cat kept batting at my butt cheeks while in bed. With no sympathy at all, he replied, "She bit mine."

We are having a day at Dad's place today. I find it incredibly odd that "Dad's place" used to be the place that I called home, but now it's just "Dad's place". "Home" leaves a bad taste in my mouth. We are going through the house and going through her things, the remnants of my things from North Carolina.

I am hoping that the day won't be too difficult. Dad is renting a dumpster, and me and Charlie, Brenda, and even Nick later on, are going to go about the business of evicting ghosts. It's eerie going in there, her night stand still full of her things, her makeup case and lotions still lined up in neat little rows beneath...her purse sitting in plain sight, as though it is ready to be picked up again at any moment by its owner.

I bought a can of Friskies for Friskey to enjoy while we're there. My poor baby is old, and I don't think she'll be with us much longer. I can tell she's arthritic and miserable. She's lost weight and Dad tells me she's been having problems hitting the litter box. What's worse, one day this week, he woke to find her trying to move around, but it seemed that her back legs weren't working at all. Eventually they kicked in again, but it just doesn't seem right.

To be fair, I didn't expect her to last very long after Mom died...

But it's sad...my friend who grew up with me and old without me. "I am hoping that the day won't be too difficult." Yeah right.

I walked into the empty house, looked around at the scattered remains of the day's mail, breathed in the almost stale air—and smiled. Hurriedly, I drop my purse at the door and kick off my shoes. Sophie winds around my feet wanting attention. "In a minute," I croon, absently brushing my fingertips behind her ears, walking lumpishly toward the kitchen.

I open the door and let my eyes dance across the seeming ordinary and make my choice, preparing also a bowl of broccoli as big as my head. Sophie has started purring now, sitting up on her back paws and tapping my legs in a play for attention. I get my dinner started and pick up the kitten, carrying her to the couch for cuddles and wet nose kisses.

Aromas fill the air in almost no time at all, and I apologize to Sophie that I'm not having sour cream and onion Sun Chips today—and no, I am not going to prepare a special dish of them just for her. (Honestly, there are few things as amusing as watching a little animal crunch through chips. Or popcorn.) I set her aside and try not to lick my chops as the timer sounds. I reach for a plate, blanketing it first in mounds of broccoli and then squeezing in the main dish along the nooks and crannies.

I set myself a place at the table, piano instrumentals on the stereo, a vase of flowers before me, and I unfold the napkin in my lap. Reaching for the fork, I place the first taste in my mouth and almost cry. This is good stuff. Too bad Nick cannot appreciate this. I love Lean Cuisine.

So, Saturday, we had this thing. It's this monstrous fireworks display set to music and this is my second year seeing it live—I can pretty much say that it ruins you for all other fireworks displays.

Warner Park is alive with activity the entire day though, chock full with rides, concessions stands, souvenir peddlers and clowns making somewhat obscene (to the dirty minded, perhaps—but elephant face my tuckas!) balloon objects for the wee ones. But, what I had been most excited to see, and have been twitching about for well over two months, is the WOLX (local oldies radio station) stage at 2:00 p.m.



With John Lennon dying shortly after I was conceived, my chances of ever seeing the Beatles live were nonexistent at best. But as we paid the entrance fee, had our hands stamped, our right-to-drink-adult-beverages bands secured, and I heard the telltale opening to "A Hard Day's Night", my knees buckled. Tribute band or not, they looked and sounded like the real thing.



The show started with the early 60's lineup, matching crisp suits, mop-top haircuts, and banter with dead-on accents and voice timbres from every audio clip I have ever had the pleasure of hearing. They had us all stand up (we had to find a place to put our beer) when they sang "Twist and Shout" at the end of the first of three segments of the show. Nick seemed surprised that I jumped up so willingly—I'm not much fond of dancing—and I told him that I learned how to Twist straight from Chubby Checker when he appeared on a talk show some ten years ago. He said the Twist is done by pretending that you're simultaneously drying your bum with a towel after a shower and putting out a cigarette with your foot.

Okay, how many of you just stood up and tried?



And then they got all psychedelic on me and I sang my voice raw, being an even bigger fan of the latter half of their career than the first. I sent Nick on the photo quests, it being his camera and all, while I held back to babysit the beverages. I didn't know that there were three parts to the show, and when they left the stage in their Sgt Pepper garb, I think I actually pouted, "It's not over, is it?"

But then "George" came out in his gravedigger gear, singing "Something" and I pepper Nick with all sorts of Beatles trivia—I go on and on about the "Paul is Dead" theory and how the Beatles perpetuated the absurd notion, the double meaning of the Abbey Road Album Art—they're walking away from a cemetery and John is dressed in all white (the Preacher), Ringo is dressed in nondescript black (the Undertaker), Paul is in a respectable suit and barefoot (the Dead Guy), and George is dressed head-to-toe in okay-to-get-dirty denim (the Gravedigger). Also on the Sgt Pepper Album, it looks like they're all standing around a fresh grave site covered in flowers with a left-handed bass—the instrument Mr. McCartney played—that also can be rotated to look like a "P" (for Paul). Those Beatles...I love how they messed with gullible minds!



And then the rest of them came out and being able to participate in the vocal riff of "Hey Jude" was easily one of the highlights of my life. My face ached from constant glee and my hands were numb from applause when they announced that American English would be available to meet and greet momentarily. Nick took a self-portrait of the two of us to commemorate:



I was humored in looking at this photo full size the next day. I had congratulated Nick on the shot in the preview-viewing on the camera screen because I didn't think it looked completely obvious that it was taken by one of us. Then I zoomed in on the reflection in my sunglasses.





"George" told me a couple times that I had a nice smile. Some radio station with a camera and a mic asked me if I enjoyed the show. When I replied that I did, they'd ask me if I'd sleep with the band members. I replied honestly that I couldn't really say with my boyfriend standing right next to me.