What's This?

     I was sitting on the couch in the living room, reading a newspaper. My dear husband was tidying up, and he picked up a pair of black denim jeans from the chair arm. He searched the pockets in preparation for throwing them in the wash, and came up with a packaged condom from the front right pocket. He looks at me and says "What's this?". Not in a "You're cheating on me, I'll kill you!", type of tone, but more of an "I'm waiting for your logical explanation of this, Darling.", semi-amused but unwilling to put up with any cuckolding situation tone. And I had one, I said, "Don't look at me, I don't like using condoms, I stay married so I can get it bareback. Those are Elder Son's jeans." We smiled at each other, Elder Son is turning 21 in a couple of months, and any sign of any sort of reponsibility is welcomed with tears of joy by us.
     I remember the day I dragged him down the aisle of the supermarket to where the sex-related products were. That was an awkward 60 seconds. I'll wager he'd already spotted them on previous trips, but I wanted to reinforce that use of these was strongly recommended and a level of reponsibility we expected of him. I think he was about 14, quite a handsome lad, and I knew it was only a matter of time that trouble would find him or he, it.
     The next year, when we informed him of his little sister's impending arrival, he burst out with, "You idiots!". He had no concept that we might actually want another kid, and that we hadn't tried to prevent one. But he agrees now that she was a worthwhile project.

Addendum: If You Let Yourself Get Dehydrated, You Want To Die

Today, ibuprofen is love.

Love is Rain, You Die in One Week Without Water

This morning I ran out to my backyard before work to find small flowers for my desk. It had rained all night and was still coming down softly. My herbs, sage, parsley, chives & garlic chives had been wilted by unseasonably dry heat the week before, but had all returned to vibrant turgidity with the blessing of moisture. I chose the purple garlic chive blooms, tearing the stems and getting garlicky juices on my fingers.  It smelled like walking past Pasta Jay's Italian restaurant.

"The quality of mercy is not strained, it falleth as the gentle rain from heaven."  - from Portia's speech in Shakespeare's 'The Merchant of Venice'