Uh . . .

I miss Fusty. Shy Oyster, who are you? I thought I knew you. You even made some appearances on my Face Book page. But now that we're sitting here, nose to nose, my mind is blank, I don't know what to say, and my face is plastered with a fake, nervous smile. (For anyone who should ever happen upon me in person, this is how I act with everyone. Don't take it personally.)

Shy Oyster, I thought we were the same. I found you over the summer and instantly felt we were a kind of you/me sandwich, though it could be argued which was the bread and who was the cheese, and, getting down to details, who brought the lettuce and the mayo.

But now I that I am actually here, now that we are actually together, I am looking at a stranger.

In truth, Fusty was also a stranger at first. Over time, we became friendly. And then we became partners. Now I feel I have deceived Fusty and taken up with a flouncy wench. O, the guilt: I haz it.

So maybe I should ask, Fusty, who are *you*? You were me, I suppose, and in truth I was having some problems with me. And I worried about your name. Fusty. What's that? Someone who's very old, probably. I didn't want that to be me, even though it was. I guess I thought a geographic cure would help.

"Shy oyster" is actually a pretty good description of me. Anyone who knows me will at some point conclude, "That Kathleen, she's a shy oyster." Meaning shy, but also meaning closed for business. Depending on their level of politeness, they might leave out the part about how infuriating and irritating that often is for them.

Fusty, however, was, or became, the more outspoken part I could occasionally tap into. Outspoken, or just plain spoken, can be a good thing. Still, most often I am, uh, a shy oyster, silent, my shell closed tight.

I will have to see where Shy Oyster leads me. I have a feeling Fusty just might tag along. I hope so. Of the many things that are true this particular Sunday morning, one of them is that I miss Fusty.