I’m contemplating as a result of a conversation with mom where I learned she’s now part of the monthly bill paying activity. For the first time in nearly 60 years. I can’t quite grasp the reality (the control freak gene clearly didn’t come from her) but she’s old-school and then some. Tracking the bills, paying them in a monthly sit down with the checkbook and a notepad has always been my dad’s task. He’s always done the math in his head, keeps the schedule in his head, and balances their accounts to the penny.

So when she said she’s now helping my dad because his handwriting isn’t as good as it used to be (okay, it was never what I’d call good…), I didn’t really hesitate. “You know, I could take that over,” I offered.

“We know you would and will, we just talked about that the other day,” she said, cautiously. “But your dad’s not ready to do that yet. He’ll let you know when he is.”

I didn’t push, just asked how many monthly bills they still had, did they do them all at once, etc. By this time I was thinking auto monthly payments set up online for the cable , land line, utilities, and insurance, and boom, I’d simply need to balance the checkbook occasionally.

“We’ll let you know.”

I expected that. Am used to that response — it’s been pretty common the past couple of years. It’s also a safe bet when I visit next week I’ll be handed a checkbook, and asked to explain how online payments would work. Let’s just hope they don’t connect ATMs with the online concept — they still refuse to use those.

Taking over more and more tasks, involved in seemingly the most mundane decisions in our parents’ lives is a reality I, and a majority of my middle age friends, have come to accept.

Now I’m wondering if there’s not something to be said for the ripping the bandaid off approach. Or, at the very least, shouldn’t there be a manual for this? A schedule that all middle-age children receive as some mid-life right of passage? You’ll need to do this when they reach X age, take away the keys at 80, etc. I’d find that oddly comforting.

Sadie met her match. Three small children wore her out. Hmmm.

Okay, it was a 10 lb dog at the most. Some sort of terrier — Yorkie, Silky, Norwich — you get the picture. I was on my jog phase, the first trip around the only flat cul de sac in the neighborhood. And granted, my focus was more on the music and the menacing clouds and lightning I may have seen flash than worrying about eminent attack.

The beast came flying out of no where! Not yapping, as it customary for small fry dogs — but snarling. Loudly. I could hear it over Lady Gaga.

I slowed, silly me, first to look back for some human who’d unleashed the hound, then to make sure he/she wasn’t about to trip me up. Not hard to do. Trust me. Though I stayed upright, he/she nipped at my calf, and seriously, had its mouth not been so small, I’m quite sure he would have latched on and stayed there. The human called the beast back to its porch — but I strongly suspected I’d have another encounter when I circled back by. And did.

By that time I was tempted to lose the ear buds and Gaga and school the human on the danger of letting the little guy pursue folks like that. I’m fine with dogs being off leash — in their own yards, especially.

But I’m not okay with surprise attacks at dusk. Not just for my safety — but the dog’s as well. If I’d been more coordinated, he might have been kicked. And had it been a busy street and not a cul de sac, he might have been in danger when he darted across the street.

Exercise is hard enough. I don’t need the added excitement!

She'd like to sell sea shells...

A week ago I was on vacation.

Strolling sandy Cape Cod beaches. Overdosing on lobster. Getting a non-Sarah Palinized history lesson in Boston’s North End. People watching in Provincetown.

Today I went back to work. That’s about all I can say about that.

But I have plenty to say about motivation. And lack thereof. Maybe it’s a mid-life moment after having so much time off, but it’s occurred to me I have no idea where to find that missing motivation.

Ten years ago, even five, I was naive enough to believe that someday I might be able to check the ‘retired’ box on some survey form or the other. Those who know me know I’m not an optimist, so it’s quite possible there was a bit of delusion at play there. Maybe I’d win the lottery – 0r my girlfriend would. I’d figure out what I really wanted to do with the rest of my life — and go do it.

I was in my ‘early’ 40s five years ago. Do the math. What is it about crossing the mid point that seems to mean losing any semblance of forward motion for some? That we just settle. Huddle in. Get along as best we can. Try not to grimace more than we smile.

In some twisted way that lack of motivation is what finally brought me to revive the blog. Delusional? No. Just fairly confident I can’t be the only one out here.

Mid-life is becoming even more muddled. So why not blog? It seemed to bring some clarity — not necessarily to the three readers out there, but definitely to me.

So let’s see if anyone notices. Real post to come. Soon. Really.

Quite honestly, I skipped the parade. And practically skipped the entire fest, circling the booths post-brunch elsewhere, having a quick cocktail, signing a petition or two, saying hello to a couple of familiar faces, and making it back to the car in the course of an hour.

As I noted in my last post, Pride moved this year to Cincy’s Fountain Square, smack in the heart of downtown and at the front door of the two main corporate sponsors. The hipster contingent was out in force, happy to support the Gay Chamber’s efforts to drive folks/business downtown on what would normally be a very, very quiet weekend. The big fireworks festivals all take place in the ‘burbs on the 4th, while the city goes all out w/Labor Day’s Riverfest — sort of downtown, really 5 blocks away on the river.

The music was the same — Men’s Chorus, random club dj’s, a folk singer or two, plenty of lip syncing drag queens. The beer was in short supply — one beer booth with a line a mile long. There was lots of steamy concrete, a cool fountain (no frolicking allowed, sorry) and lots of youngsters. As in 20-somethings. I felt insanely old. And a bit nostalgic.

I missed the Northside location of year’s past. Grass. A playground. Lots of families with kids and pets. Sure, it was a tight squeeze, but Northside is Cincinnati’s gayest neighborhood. And an afternoon on a blanket, lounging among friends, just felt like what Pride should be about. At least at my age.

I lived on Cincinnati’s West side for several years. It’s a… unique place. Catholic. Conservative. In a time warp of sorts. Still, you can’t beat the housing values and the genuine ‘neighborhood’ feel. There are historic homes that border Cincinnati’s inner city and lush, rolling suburban townships with McMansion-dotted acre lots. And it’s home to a surprising number of same sex couples.

Yesterday, also known as the HOTTEST day of the year to date, and not one on which to hike along asphalt streets, R and I headed out to the West Fest. The festival is a celebration of all things West side. Catholic education. Conservative politics (Tea Party in full force, not surprisingly — but who knew they charged $5 for a yard sign?) Cornhole games. Quite often all three of these things were combined.

Outside of the ‘mouse game’ booth hosted by the West side private school that seems to have turned ‘out’ a lot of girls who like girls, it wasn’t really a precursor to next weekend’s Pride. Local Facebook and local blog chatter tag this year’s Pride as having been co-opted, to some degree, by the Gay Chamber.

There’s much more of a business focus than the authentic, come one, come all event that used to be held in Northside, the gayest neighborhood in the Tri-State. It’s moved downtown, the parade and corporate sponsorships with it, and will happen July 4 weekend which seems a bit… different. 

There probably won’t be funnel cake fries at Pride either.

I knew of her in a professional capacity, but had never actually met her. I’m quite sure I’ve never seen her at any community events.

So now, of course, I’m cyber-sleuthing my way through Cincinnati looking for connections.

I did my darndest to be ‘out’ — chatting with a couple of other LGBT folks in the meeting, mentioning an upcoming event tied to Pride. Nada.

I suspect, as is all too common round these parts, that she may be closeted for professional reasons. I get that.

But it’s still going to drive me crazy!

Providing I can get her off the keyboard.

She’s Sadie. A four-month-old Shi Poo. 6 lbs. of spunk.

They’re working it out.