pink, and other, blindfolds

It can get old to point somebody in the direction of a spoon several times every morning. And, by the way, we keep bowls over there. Just where they’ve been for 15 years. The flip side is the unavoidable pathos of the situation. What I often want to do is bundle the guy into the car and take a trip. A road trip, a boat trip, an airplane trip. Let’s just go places so we can see interesting things and forget about what we can’t do. Matlock and Magnum can stay here.

Gabe is drifting around the house like a Roomba without the added usefulness. He is “heightening his senses” by wearing a blindfold made from a scrap of leftover pink fleece from Rachel’s sock-making project. He is heightening the sensitivity of everyone else’s frayed nerves. If only he could suck up dust and dog hair, but, alas, the result is more likely to be further entropy.

I can’t take the road trip. As is so often the case in life there is no way to perfectly balance the needs of everyone within one’s main sphere of influence. So I might as well welcome Matlock and Magnum as my allies, just as I used to uncomfortably rely on videos to occasionally squeeze in a bit of respite when children were small.

Rachel’s sock project is everywhere. It keeps trying to take over the kitchen counter, but I beat it back every twelve hours or so. I would think covering every square inch of the kitchen table would be adequate. I would think.

There’s a big question mark hovering, almost visibly, over the doxycycline bottle. Does it help? Is this valuable? Are we needlessly stirring things up? Should we declare a truce with the borrelia--maybe invite them to tea--maybe cede just the portion of the brain that controls...I don’t know...how to use a tv remote? Are there even any borrelia in there? We don’t know.

flotsam

Gabe is trying the free 10 day trial of World of Warcraft. One day into the trial period he says, with an analytical grimace, “On a scale of 1-5, I’d give it a 1.” After 2 days he says, “It’s fun as long as you’re a gnome or a zombie.”

Jeff wants to rent The Black Dahlia, but he’s suddenly dealing with a head full of spirochete exudate and wants a ride to Blockbuster. “Can I take a 30 minute nap first?” I say, trying to say it without waking up. I wake up soon anyway because my cell phone starts making barnyard noises. It’s 3:05. But it’s Saturday. So I don’t need to go pick Gabe up from his carpool. He’s downstairs, being a zombie. Or a gnome. Jeff meanwhile, has discovered that WETA is showing clips of old movies and he’s quite content without Black Dahlia.

I play Frost and Snow. It’s a hornpipe from a Christmas fiddle book, and I play it poorly. Fortunately, I play everything poorly so Frost and Snow won’t feel singled out.

Olivia is trying to balance her part time toy store job, school, and track. Today the the balance is tipping. I can gauge by how much noise she has to make to get ready for school. Today was noisy. I did, however, get Gabe out of the shower promptly enough that he could eat oatmeal. Well, something ate oatmeal. It looked like a large, animatronic green bedspread which would try to swallow the dog if I didn’t keep it in line.

We had a Dr. Aucott appointment today. Dr. Aucott thinks that maybe our results show enough glimmer of positivity that we push on in the same direction. The march of the pink pills continues...

Some whim overtook me tonight with great enough urgency that I made a pecan pie, crust and all. It’s in the oven. Sadly, it must cool or it will run all over the pan and plate. I may have gone to bed by then. Pie is a good breakfast.

no wedgies

Why would a little wandering peaceful feeling settle around you all of a sudden, unprovoked? I don’t know, but I wouldn’t give it a wedgie.

I’m sure it’s partly because of a plan--a plan that seems, maybe, workable. Sell School St., sell Oyster Catcher Ct., sell West St., keep Otterbein and East West. Ok, ok, I know that probably doesn’t quell any of your demons, but mine are somewhat placated, and I’m ok with that.

(Excuse me, I have to go put on the next Gregg Hansen cd. Kind of a Charlie Byrd vibe with a slight hippie edge. Did it.)

Jeff did something today. He got some vegetation clippers and cleared a whole bunch of overgrowth away from the driveway. Then he crashed, fully and utterly, in front of a History channel program on adhesives. He said, upon recovery, “I was feeling so normal this morning...and then I just crashed.” “You know,” sez I, “what a positive sign this morning burst of energy is? Crashing afterwards was ok.” (In other words, don’t give it a wedgie.) I think we’ve got the spirochetes on the run. They may leave some post-apocalyptic destruction in their wake, but they’re on the run.

Here’s what I’ve been trying to do--talk myself into the idea that I want to live in Severna Park forever and ever. The problem is, I really like Eastport. And Murray Hill in Annapolis, but maybe especially Eastport. And then there’s the disturbing new trend of my admiring Federal Hill in Baltimore. Particularly the Riverside Park area. If you don’t know why, then you’ve never been on a third floor deck looking out at the city lights and the Domino Sugar sign. Well, we’ve got a year and a half of Olivia in the S.P. public school system, and then...I don’t know, we’ll just have to wait and see.

Speaking of Olivia and a year and a half--she’s not exactly burning rubber in her pursuit of colleges she’d like to visit. This would be a good time for me to pay a call to PrincetonReview.com and generate a default list of schools on her behalf. Then I’ll study Spanish. I don’t know about you, but I think the verb querer has a few too many funky forms.

Financial people aren't smarter than you.

Fidelity must be dumb or something. Monday we trotted our little dubloon certificates for shares in Smelly Jack’s Treasure Chest and Loan into Washington so we could sign ‘em over to Fidelity who’d hold the shares in “street name.” You figure if a brokerage would have a pyramid tip radiating light beams as its logo, then it must know what it’s doing. So I was quite surprised when I logged on later and discovered that though we’d deposited 130 dubloons, they’d credited us with 230.

Well, I think, that’s so much more generous than a toaster that they probably didn’t intend that as a lovely welcome gift. Of course I give the briefest whiff of a notion to super-quickly putting in a sell-all-dubloons order online, but I imagine that their accounting apartment could be a little sharper than the data entry people. So I call them instead. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am, I’m back to 130 dubloons.

Fine then. Until today when I get a zippy yellow and red, extremely urgent, DHL Express envelope containing our original 30 dubloon certificate attached to a note requesting that Jeff sign away his rights to those 30 dubloons to me. But he already signed such a form. In D.C. On Monday. I was even wearing good shoes, so I remember. Several phone calls later, Fidelity’s sending me a special, certified, overnight envelope so I can return the certificate to them since they had the right paperwork after all. Good. I would hate to have to put my shoes back on to get this straightened out. But now I’m pretty sure they’re dumb.

I must be dumb or something too. I tried to sell 120 dubloons yesterday, but couldn’t quite squeak it in before closing bell, 4 pm EST. So I tried today, this time as a “limit order” which means I’d only sell my shares in Smelly Jack IF the per dubloon price matches yesterday’s closing price. That didn’t happen. Smelly Jack evidently sprung a bit of a leak today, and this naturally shows up on my Fidelity account page in technicolor, most unreassuring red. So what do I do tomorrow? Wait until Smelly Jack’s mast is listing a bit more, then unload it before my account page glows and even glarier shade of red? Chuckle, and say, nonchalantly what’re a few dubloons? I’m all about diversifying and sell at what tomorrow’s market will bear? I fear that I lack the cool, incisive demeanor I need for this business. But it’s the only business I’ve got at the moment, so a decision must be reached. And will be.

Monster in the Basement

There’s a device living in my basement which has a habit of baffling me every Fall. I guess the technical term for it is “manifold.” It is a plumbing marvel--a contorted tangle of copper tubing and valves, punctuated by several pumps and even more outlets. Its intended function is to carry water to and from the water heater, to and from the multitude of hose loops that run under the floor upstairs, and now, part of downstairs too. It was installed by Yank the plumber, but an imaginative neophyte might suppose we’d commissioned Rube Goldberg, or maybe Captain Nemo.

Here is what I do every Fall. Just as I’ve reached the end of my ability to cheerfully get up in the morning while setting cold feet on the even colder floor, and fishing around for a bathrobe, I decide it won’t hurt to fire up the furnace...just a crack. But it doesn’t work. It takes a while to figure this out, because radiant heat is notoriously slow to take decisive and noticeable action, just as it is slow to ease off once you’ve turned your entire upstairs into a too-toasty sauna. So I pad around the floor for a couple days, feeling for the tell-tale warm patches. No dice. Then I enter the netherworld of the house, and stare at the manifold with its 18 feed valves and 18 return valves, and numerous who-knows-what valves spread haphazardly along the rest. Surely I’m bright enough to comprehend the thing, and surely, with enough staring, it will all begin to make sense. This morning I noticed one thing: the feed valves above the pumps were closed. More padding, more feeling, more staring at the copper hydra, hoping something else will occur to me. This afternoon I noticed something else: the return valves that let the water out of the loops and back to the heater were closed too. Yes. One needs open loops. I just checked--the thermometer which is supposed to tell you the temp of water entering the loops has crept from nothing to at least registering warmth. It must, for the system to be functioning correctly, eventually be exceeding the returned water thermometer’s reading by 15 degrees F. The water heater has begun to kick on and roar with greater frequency. I take this to mean it’s discovered that there is, in fact, water to heat as the system perhaps has finally begun to circulate. Yank the plumber is coming over Thursday. I will ask him every possible question I can think of and this time take notes. Probably even draw a detailed diagram. The basement beast really needs to learn who’s boss.

Speaking of clutter...

When I was in first grade I had a friend by the name of Eileen who liked, above all, to take the role of pedagog. I can’t recall all of the ways in which she attempted to instruct me though I do remember her awkward demonstration of ballet first and second position. Another standout moment involved her explicit instructions re how to fill out one of the schedule blanks found in the inside cover of a black&white marble composition book. I was to write (or draw,) in this order: star, check, yes, plus, ok. Seemed like a complicated sequence for a space meant to show a clock time, but Eileen seemed pretty sure of herself, so I didn’t argue.

This is what I thought of as I tried, again, to navigate the AppleWorks database program I’ve inherited from the elderly gentleman down the road. It contains membership data for the Anne Arundel Community Concert Association. I’m sure that every single data field in that program made perfect sense to him as he constructed it, but for me it’s like rummaging through someone else’s junk drawer of random objects to find a screwdriver. AppleWorks, sadly, is a lame duck. The data, in this format, cannot be transferred to the computer of anyone who uses a PC. I’ve a strong urge to retrofit the entire computer-geek records job using FileMaker. But I can’t. Because my iBook is too old to use a new version of FileMaker. I’m not doing any major overhaul on AppleWorks because it’s a dead language. It's entirely possible that I'm just too dumb to jump into someone else's game. But I could make it make sense to me with the right tools. Which I don't have. So for now, or until my G3 processor begins showing its age enough to really annoy me, I’ll be bumbling along, trying to sort through the buttons, old bolts, and other assorted flotsam, looking for a screwdriver.

Uff Da!

A vignette from my paternal ancestry, based on what I’ve learned from participating in the National Geographic Genographic project:

Bjarni the Viking oarsman, becomes lost in the Scottish heather after a night of heavy pillaging and stumbles into a humble hamlet where he meets up with Duffy the farmer.
Bjarni: Hvar er the öl?*
Duffy: Dornt ken whit yoo're sayin' but we've got a brammer pot ay stew in th' hut.

Duffy’s comely daughter Aithbhreac bounces out to feed the flock.
Duffy: Guid day, dochter, yoo've bin pinin' since th' bear ate 'at laddie ay yoors. whit abit thes fellaw?
Aithbhreac: (giving Bjarni the once over) Och aye, yoo're bonnie enaw, but yoo'd better pit doon 'at battle axe ur yoo'll scaur th' sheep.
Bjarni: Hvar er the kjöt?**
Duffy: Lookee thaur, th' druid is reit behin' th' cabre. an' he brooght mistletoe.
Aithbhreac: Stain haur please.
Bjarni: Hvar ert the vídeó leikur?***
(Druid gestures meaningfully over Bjarni and Aithbhreac)
Duffy: Gallus! welcome tae th' fowk, laddie wi' a funay hat!

And 20 or so Y-chromosome hand-offs down the road, or roundabout 1770, Thomas Gillespie sets off for the New World.

(*where’s the ale? **where’s the meat? ***where are the video games?)

It would be ok if I were dandelion fluff.

I know that when the thought of doing a Sudoku even crosses my mind lightly, that I must be feeling pretty unanchored. And it wouldn’t have crossed if there were a decent crossword puzzle in the house. Turning my attention to numerals shows a certain amount of desperation.

Limbo always gives me an unnerving, unsettled feeling. There is the whole gestalt of Jeff’s health issue of the last several years, lately with it’s repetitive pattern of feeling like we’re teetering on the brink of a possible answer only to have the Wizard say, “go away and come back tomorrow.” There is the equally annoying repetition which involves an envelope arriving in the mail, my address handwritten by me, with a small note inside stating that my submission does not meet someone’s present needs. That brings its own cyclical form of feeling adrift without a tether. It was lovely to have such a sense of purpose as I had while composing my first fiction, but now that I must write with the bubble popped it can be hard to feel purposeful. Then, when loss of purpose is compounded by lack of quality, focused writing time, I’m really scratching blindly in empty air for something nice and concrete on which to grab, just for a few minutes of feeling grounded.

Crossword puzzles may not be everyone’s opiate, but they seem to work for me. And are a heckuva lot healthier than opium. I guess. Even when your drug of choice is word games, you somehow are still very aware that there is a reality from which you’re deliberately escaping.

I think I’m ready for my life-altering, mystical, transcendental, ineffable experience please. Such things are rarely vended on request, I’m quite aware, but I can want one. And I can want a trip to the Scottish Isle of Iona. Neither Iona nor transcendence are terribly likely to happen this week, but they’re worth keeping on the wish list.

Why do we always...!

I feel like I’m on the verge of a watershed moment after a 4 year wait and, not surprisingly, this weekend is registering in the red zone on the anxiety meter.

It didn’t seem like a profound idiocy to give Jeff my blessing to go on a “2 day” sailing adventure with Bill and company. Heck, that gave us a full 2 day window to screw up the timing. But it’s midday, on day two of the allotted cushion, and I’m finding myself like Marty McFly, shouting ”Why do we always cut these things so damn close? at the dog.

The dog is not impressed one way or the other, as getting Jeff to tomorrow’s appointment is completely out of her paws. I could possibly spare myself some internal churning by grasping that it’s out of my hands as well, but I’m still willing to jump in the Soob and drive an all night odyssey to Norfolk if need be, to fetch Jeff--anything to make tomorrow’s appointment. I have spoken to one of Jeff’s fellow sailors--one who has a memory--and I’ve gotten assurances. Still, there is no question that I will call again today to make sure things are on track. I’m sorry. It’s necessary. There is no other way to prevent myself from turning inside out.

Update: I did call. Bill called back. From Route 64. They wished the sailors bon voyage and rented a car to get back to Baltimore on time. I'm torn between crap--I screwed up the end of the sailing trip, and big heaving sigh of relief.

Potty talk

Rachel headed to St. Mary’s today, about 2 weeks ahead of the semester schedule. She wants to do some time on the organic farm, and earn a couple pockets-full of cash. It’s not dorm move-in time, of course, so she’ll be crashing with her friend Kulveen (that’s Coolbeans to me,) and she loaded up at Whole Foods on the way down. Ken and Barbie, the goldfish, did not make it back to St. Mary’s this trip, and will be my wards, it seems, until Rachel comes for another load.

Becca and her not-boyfriend named Tyler were hanging around today, whereas Rachel’s not-boyfriend named Tyler was hanging around one day in Nags Head last week, and all this has Jeff quite confused. We are sorely in need of a not-boyfriend named Tyler for Olivia to make it a hat trick, and if Gabe ever brings home a girl named Tyler--not unlikely in today’s naming climate--that will truly cap things off with a feather.

My new skill for the day was toilet installation. I’ve never aspired to install a toilet, but it went down like so many things do around here. I’d had quite enough of the old toilet after living with it since Otterbein St. (that’s 22+ years.) As far as I can recall, it’s always been a bit of a diva, requiring that one hold the lever a good 10-15 seconds to ensure a proper 5 gallon flush. Lately it’s been a leaky diva. Leaky and inclined to grow multicolored colonies of unidentified microorganisms in the bowl, due to inefficient flushing. Jeff acquired a new one this morning. By afternoon, the diva was in the shower on her side, and the new pot was partially assembled amidst a scattering of nuts, washers, tools and stinky water. Jeff was not to be found in that collection of flotsam, and no toilet was in service downstairs. It was not difficult. I grasped the purpose of the squishy bowl bushings right away, and secured the nuts that held the tank to the seat. Unfortunately the supply hose coupling was hopelessly corroded and leaky and demanded a trip to the hardware store for a replacement. I grabbed a new seat while I was at it. Once the watertight hose was screwed on, the water level was simple enough to adjust, and we had a spot to pee, except, unfortunately, for a seat. The one I brought was too short.

Jeff picked one up on the way home, and put it in the bathroom. “Where’s the new seat,” I said. “Here,” he replied, handing me the too-short one. “No,” I said. “That’s the one I brought home. Where’s the one you brought home?” “Maybe in the truck,” he said. He checked and came back. “Here,” he said, handing me the too-short one again. Luckily, at this point I spotted the new one in the bathroom and attached it after dinner.

I’ve had the greatest urge lately, to hook a little silver Airstream to the back of my Subaru and make like Odysseus. Not the part where I’d have to stab a whole bunch of rude guys. Just the taking off part. That could be cool. I would want the toilet in my Airstream to come pre-installed.

Yahoo dinner hour

I’ve done some thinking lately, about eating. You know how they’re always trotting out studies about traditional dinner rituals and how families that sit down together to a pot roast with real napkins, and a nice discussion about the days events produce healthy children. (As opposed to the grab and go families whose children go on to think up South Park, or write Captain Underpants books.)

I’ve been struggling for some time with the guilt which stems from being the kind of mother for whom and Ozzie and Harriet dinner hours come as naturally as speaking Swahili. Unless you speak Swahili. And I don’t.
Here, Ozzie is more likely to go rooting through the cabinets looking for a chocolate bar at 5:00 pm than he is to support Harriet’s attempts to call the crew to dinner. Which makes no difference whatsoever, since Harriet’s been hacking away at her book project and only just noticed that her blood sugar (not to mention that of the teenagers,) has just dropped so precipitously that she could no more organize her thoughts to put together a lovely meal than she could reinvent calculus. In Swahili.

But is the outcome really so bad? Here’s a typical scenario. I say, “Wow. We have to eat. Jeff, do you want a chicken burger (antibiotic-free, on a bun with tomato, lettuce and mustard,) or a tofurkey sandwich? He picks chicken. Becca fixes herself a tofurkey on a bagel. Olivia complains that she hates chicken and and tofurkey, and makes macaroni and cheese. That’s cool. Gabe’ll eat some. Otherwise he would fix pasta. I go around throwing mixed baby greens at everyone's plate, and everyone ends up fed. Meanwhile, we’ve been mixing it up in the kitchen in our usual boisterous, cantankerous, and occasionally convivial way. So, as far as I’m concerned, we’ve covered nutrition and we’ve covered family time. Would Martha Stewart be proud? Do I care? I can safely answer no.

Perfection World

It became inescapably obvious to me (and the dog,) on our walk this morning--Olde Severna Park is not the same neighborhood I moved into almost 20 years ago.

The most obvious change is the houses themselves, structurally. I cannot deny that we were, to a certain extent, the trendsetters where changing the character and size of an original OSP house is concerned. Yes. We took a modest 1947 Cape Cod and transformed it--over the course of more years than I care to count--into a large, but not huge, Arts and Crafts Bungalow. It has been in most ways an extremely painful process. Far more painful than we ever imagined. But I can also say this about our house: It is the vision, design, labor, and craftsmanship of a connoisseur of the style. The two of us have invested more blood, sweat, and tears into this structure than most people would care to sacrifice. I’m not saying this with pride necessarily, but more to try to make a distinction between why we have this transformed house, and what is going on with the rest of the neighborhood.

Today it struck me with razor-sharp clarity that there are two types of houses in OSP. The done, and the not done.

I’m trying to say this with as much caution and tact as I can muster, because I know many fine people who live in neighborhoods that don’t interest me. I would call them the mini-mansion neighborhoods. They overwhelm me in their sameness, perfection, and sterility. I don’t doubt that the houses are in some way stamped with the personalities and character of the inhabitants. But I don’t see it in a casual drive-through.

On the plus side, OSP could not become a mini-mansion community. The houses were built individually over the years, and none particularly resemble any of the others in style or design. So, as they grow bigger, they grow bigger individually, maintaining their differentness. But here’s what distinguishes them from my house: When they go under the renovator’s knife, they change fast and they become perfect. There is not one that is not photo-ready for its spread in Better Homes and Gardens. Which brings me to the landscaping.

At a high school reunion last year, I chatted most of the time with a man whom I’d known as a kind of awkward, out-of-place kid. Now he was a friendly, successful, and confident landscape designer. I expressed surprise when he told me about the scale of the residential projects he designs and implements. I was shocked that people routinely put 10 or 20 thousand dollars into lawn perfection. Now I’m not. I see it everywhere, every time the dog and I walk down the street. Nothing--not a weed, not a pansy, not a hosta--is out of place. And you would know, because places are well marked by sharp, mulched borders, and perfectly arranged trees and shrubs of uniform size. Dr. Seuss would have been proud. Or not. Dr. Seuss’s world had an organic feel that my neighbors’ lawns, in all their perfection, lack.

You could argue that I’m jealous because my lawn looks like, well, the semi-neglected old style. The style that another landscaper I once met referred to, slightly disdainfully, as Cottage Garden.

Our house--at least the renovated parts--are not old. And yet by now it’s starting to look like it falls into the not done, category. Because of the yard. Because of the cobwebs on the front porch. Because of the scruffiness of the not-quite-complete shingling. Because of the chickweed, dandelions, violets, and you-name-it that grow unchecked where the done houses have only the greenest grass. I mow it. But I cringe when I see those little yellow signs sticking out of my neighbors’ perfect grass that say “Pesticide application! Stay off or you and your dog and your children and your descendants for 3 generations to come will die slow and painful deaths!”

I wonder how long until I feel squeezed out by the encroaching Stepfordness of OSP. And then I wonder if there’s any such place where I would feel right. And if I felt right, would it change? Probably. I still mean to get one of those little lawn markers that says “This lawn safe for children, animals, and bare feet, as long as you don’t mind stepping on sticks.

Not an atypical week.

Gabe is putting weird, powdery, banana flavored stuff in milk. Nothing like a hit of banana Lactaid to get you back in homework-tackling form.

It’s one of those weeks or so that I teeter on the brink of wacko. Jeff is in Colorado for two definable purposes. 1)To help his brother Wade retrofit a latter-day hippie communal housing project, and 2)so Wade can take him on a round (several rounds, from what I’m hearing) of poking from the acupuncturist, pounding from the masseuse, and prodding from the homeopath. They have noticed something interesting which I had not picked up on. Jeff can have a conversation as long as his eyes are closed. The minute he opens them the confusion returns and the dazed look prevails. This will be important for me to remember. Close your eyes...I’d like your opinion on [whatever.] Today he wondered if I would mind him staying another week as Wade has a deadline. And I don’t really mind. Since I hadn’t learned the eye-closing trick I’ve spent the last several years making like an Amazon. (we keep men for breeding purposes, but do everything else ourselves.)

I’ve been working on budgeting. The truth has generally been that I stink at budgets, but am adequate at muddling through. Muddling though, as a manner of being, is starting to get to me, and I would really like to feel capable of budgeting. To this end, I located (online, where else?) a cute little Palm program called Quik Budget (note that it offers no assistance with spelling.) Happily, Palm software has made small enough strides in the past several years that the PDA I acquired when I needed a drug database is still completely up to the task of running Quik Budget. So, as long as I remember to input the occasional lattes, and the frequent grocery errands, Quik Budget is supposed to inform me when it’s time to eat just Cheerios, and maybe even the Cheerios box.

As for going wacko--well, I’m trying to quell that tendency by doing yoga by candlelight and hacking away, bit by bit, at my story.

All that’s left of the Easter jelly beans are a few pinks and oranges at the bottom of the bowl. Pink is supposed to be grapefruit, but Becca got a bubblegum this afternoon. A factory jokester maybe. I don’t think anyone will eat the few remainders as it appears that Gabe cut a goodly number of them in half with scissors. Hard to say why. Probably for the same reason that he has a bunch of thumbtacks stuck into a roll of duct tape on his desk.

One more reason to run a yellow light.

What do other people think of intersection fundraising? The reason I wonder is because of the diverse collection of attitudes that run through my brain every time I’m faced with this type of solicitation--and that’s often nowadays. I’m not even talking about the homeless people with cardboard signs that say “God bless” on them. I’m referring strictly to the kind of folks who usually present in the following way: 5 gallon bucket with a slot in the lid, and some kind of flyer taped to the outside. They usually wear day-glo safety vests, and there are usually several at one intersection, the better to be accessible to cars going in any direction.

Today’s group, at the intersection of Forest Drive and Route 2, was a textbook example. In these cases I’m often grateful to be several cars back from the light, because they might not get to me, but today I was at the head of the line, one lane over from the median. Of course the lady crossed the lane. I pretended to be listening intently to Ladysmith Black Mambazo, but still had to turn my head slightly in her direction and shake it, just in the interest of human acknowledgment.

I did notice the bucket. It said, in slightly rain-smeared inkjet print, New Life Church. I have never heard of New Life Church. It could stand for anything or nothing. I noticed that all three of the ladies working the intersection had on hausfrau-esque dresses. How could I be sure that New Life Church doesn’t espouse a backward repressive theology requiring all women to wear dresses? On the other hand, it’s entirely possible that their manner of dress reflected the fact that they were all, shall we say, zaftig, and they were wearing what they find the most comfortable. You just don’t know, do you? And should I really care whether the church requires its women to wear ugly dresses if it uses money for a good cause? Perhaps not, but how can one possibly assess whether a)the cause is good, and b)they’re even telling the truth, at a 20 second stoplight?

So there I am subjected to a whole host of unanswerables--Would I approve of their goals? Could I even open my wallet fast enough if I knew I approved, and if I did, would I even have a loose buck? Am I just a stingy curmudgeon who engages in these psychological inner battles to avoid charity? Do I mind if they get plowed down by the impatient dude in the ugly Hummer one lane over? Couldn’t they find a less annoying way to raise funds? And if the answer is “no,” does it therefore make intersection soliciting ok?

I have more or less decided that I don’t drop money into unknown buckets. But the good that the bucket people do--if I should give them any credit for this--is that after I pass a certain critical mass of intersection bucket brigades, my guiltometer reaches the red zone and I send a donation to--for example--the Lighthouse Shelter or Habitat or something. And that is the upside.

Food, glorious food.

The time in my life when I enjoyed grocery shopping was when I lived in an apartment near the University of Maryland, with Ginny. In those days, cooking was fun. Stocking our kitchen (it had a pink stove and refrigerator, which lowered our rent by $50 a month,) gave us a giddy sense of independence, and cooking was a relaxing diversion from the necessary drudgery of studying for another chemistry exam.

As I recall, I kind of liked it during the early days of marriage too. I seem to remember having the turntable somewhere weird, like on top of a kitchen cabinet, but it pleased me to spin a Judds lp while putting thoughtful preparation into a meal at our downtown house. (which we left at 7 months gestation because I remember being keenly aware that when the burglars next came a’knocking I could easily climb from the bedroom deck, to the courtyard wall, to the neighbor’s yard myself, but a baby would limit my escape possibilities.)

I distinctly remember making the point to Jeff that grocery shopping with a baby was twice as hard as doing it solo. (not that shopping solo as a young, unencumbered 20-something is even remotely difficult, so you could make it twice as hard without doing much damage.) But even dinner prep, with the kid around, had its charm. I tended to tuck the little one in a front-carrier and carry on as usual, with the occasional tendency to drop pasta sauce on the kid’s head.

I stopped liking grocery shopping as it came to mean the following things: Someone would drop a jar of applesauce in aisle 9. Someone would sneak Sugar-blasted fluorescent gummy-snake puffs into the cart when I wasn’t looking. Someone would have a nuclear meltdown in the check-out line. And years later, someone would go shopping with me as a consultant, only to decry (the very next day) the utter lack of edible food in the house..

There was an even messier slew of reasons why my interest in cooking dried up and died an early death. Most people know this one--children like to fight and yell during dinner prep time. But I had some unique ones: A year spent with rainwater falling in 30 gallon trash cans all over the house--several in the kitchen. Several years during which the demolition stage of the house transformation meant that loose insulation and 40 year old rotten rafter debris were as likely to be unintentional dietary additives as dog and cat hair.

It seems that the family has more or less learned to accept that they don’t have that kind of mother anymore. And something cool is happening--not all the time, but last night was a shining example--Becca made vegetable pot pie. Olivia made mashed potatoes. Gabe made apple crumble. I ate. And under the circumstances, I was more than happy to help clean up.

Do what you gotta

A little bit of fire under my kettle, a little publish or perish mentality might not be such a bad thing. When you know you gotta make it work, are you more likely to make it work? I might be.

It’s still true that nobody quite believes me when I say that bashing away at the latest project is my job, but I have to believe it, so I keep bashing.

Fish dreams

My kids, to this day, don’t really get my meaning when I nix an attempt to acquire another pet. I say I just can’t handle any more animals. Psychologically. The kid (usually Gabe nowadays,) swears up and down that that’s not a problem because he’d take care of it. For now, he’s taking care of a betta fish (discounting the 4 cats and 1 dog which are givens for the moment.) That will have to do. Here’s what I mean by psychologically.

Last night’s dream involved fish. I’m sure that’s because we do have the one full time resident--the betta of undetermined gender, and the vague name “Fishy.” Also there are Barbie and Ken, the goldfish, who often accompany Rachel home on breaks. I think this dream was more goldfish-centric.

There were five fish in the tank. Goldfish, but shaped more like nerf footballs, and several colors. Two of them were, in fact, the size of nerf footballs. Clearly they had outgrown their tank, in a serious way. What to transfer them to? I found a blue plastic wading pool. You know, the kind that crackles and buckles when it’s full of water and you try to move it. Still, we filled it with water and moved the fish in. Problem #1. It had no top. Which one or both of the big fish immediately took advantage of by leaping over the side. I caught one in the act, and one on the carpet, and put them back in. Then I attempted to shore up the sides of the pool somehow, to make leaping harder, but every attempt to handle the pool resulted in a collapse of that edge, and several fish sloshing or leaping over the edge with the current. The dream ended with me at the pet shop, wondering if the 50 gallon tank would be big enough.

I had dreams of the same theme when we had gerbils. In those dreams the top of the cage had been left ajar, or they’d gnawed through the galvanized steel base of their habitat. Whatever, there were always endangered (and apparently suicidal) little animals in these dreams, and I didn’t need the extra anxiety.

Gabe wants a snake. No, I say. And I mean it. I’m sure, in my dream, that snake would be under my pillow. I do not fear non-venomous snakes. But I’d be waking up in the middle of the night and looking under my pillow in a disoriented haze to make sure I wasn’t squishing the little thing.

I don't care for Wonder bread.

We were chatting with a neighbor today. He needed some info on a roofer we’d used. Can’t remember the sequence of discussion, but some people just like to ramble and from amongst his ramblings I gleaned the following:

He’s originally from Ohio and likes the homogeneity of that part of the country. He prefers to live among people who look the same. He does not relish the multi-linguisticity, multi-ethnicity, and frequent appearance of turbans that occurs in many parts of Maryland such as near D.C. and Columbia. When he eats out, he prefers to patronize the same place repeatedly, provided they do not use any seasonings he would consider exotic. When a friend bragged to him about being on a safari in Kenya he did not understand what there was to brag about or why anyone would want to be there. He can’t see the point of a 50 foot long living room furnished with 4 wide-screen LCD tvs.

We agree on one of those points--and I’ll give you a hint--it comes near the end of the paragraph.

This was an interesting juxtaposition to the other notable personality which impacted my day. It was the first day of third-semester Spanish at the Community College. When my new prof, Thomas (Tomás) Edison entered the classroom, I smiled almost from the get-go. He was funny. He was smart. He was enthusiastic. And when he described (en Español) how much fun it was to leave the homogeneity of Southern Indiana (where most of his education happened) to immerse himself in the relative diversity of the Mid-Atlantic, he won me over as a teacher.

I mean absolutely no disrespect to the first individual mentioned in this entry. He implied, and I inferred, no animosity toward people of varying ethnicities, it was just that his personal comfort zone was sameness. But how much more delighted I was by the African-american teacher, encouraging us to seek pov-expanding experiences, and look for opportunities to employ new languages.

making a hat.

I’ve given up on the sweater I started a couple years ago. Too big, too complicated, and I don’t like the pattern that much anyway. But the urge to knit still kicks in occasionally. So I’m taking the same yarn, and making a hat. I’m on row 8, counting...knit...purl...knit...purl, 2, 3, 4...knit...

Jeff: Where’s the normal remote?

Me:...purl...knit...I don’t know. Under furniture.

Olivia: Use the silver one! Should I take keyboarding or marine biology?

Me: ...knit, 2, 3, 4...It doesn’t matter. Whichever you want.

Gabe: Look at all the salsa recipes I downloaded!

Me: ...purl...

Olivia: Gabe! you can’t waste all that paper!

Jeff: I don’t know where the buttons are on this remote.

Becca: Mom, want to buy me this stuff from Athleta?

Me: ...purl...knit...why do you need 15 salsa recipes?

Jeff: Does anyone know where the normal remote is?

Olivia: What do you think I should take?

Me: ...knit, 2, 3, 4...it doesn’t matter, you’ve covered all your academic requirements, right?

Gabe:...peach salsa, mango salsa, tropical salsa, apple salsa...

Olivia: You hate me?

Me: ...knit...purl...not that I know of...

Jeff: This remote doesn’t work.

Dog: ARF!

Me: ...purl...knit...somebody wanna let the dog in?

Becca: Mom! Gabe has me in a headlock!

Jeff: What happens to the normal remotes anyway?

Olivia: Gabe! Pick up your papers!

Dog: WOOF!

Me: ...knit...come in, hurry up...purl..

Door: SLAM

Gabe: How do I make the printer stop printing copies of mango salsa?

Jeff: How does anybody use the tv without the remote?

Olivia: Fine! I’ll just take stupid keyboarding since you hate me!

This pattern on this hat could be weird.

I can do without Walt.

For several years Jeff went to exercise class, M, W, and F, 7a.m., at SportFit. That it was held at SportFit was really incidental, since the real glue that held the little group together was sweat, camaraderie, and an ex-Seal instructor.

A few months or so ago, the SportFit powers that be concluded that the tenacity demonstrated by this doggedly faithful little group of 4 to 8 wasn’t enough for them to keep such a sparsely attended class on their schedule. It took Jeff a while to notice that he really needed to cancel his SportFit membership so they would stop debiting his card monthly, since he didn’t use their facilities for anything else, and since he’d just signed up for a substitute exercise class at the Community College.

Lately I’ve been kind of control-freaking my way into managing some business that I use to leave to him (and blissfully never thought about,) and I can no longer ignore little things that pop up on his credit card bill--like a monthly SportFit debit. Yesterday he dropped in at the front desk to cancel his membership. “Oh, said the girl. “Walt’s not here right now. Walt has to be here when you do that.”

Today, I called SportFit. “He can come any day between 10 and 3 to fill out the cancellation form,” said the dude, “but since it’s already after the 10th of the month the cancellation won’t take effect until the next billing cycle.” IOW, there’s going to be a debit for SportFit at the beginning of February whether I like it or not, but I’d be danged if there would be one for March.

So, before lunch, I went to the SportFit counter with Jeff. I hung back a bit, feeling like I ought to be rhythmically smacking a billy-club with a chain against my palm. Jeff says he wants to cancel his membership. The girl says “Walt’s not here right now.” I say “Walt wasn’t here yesterday either. But you can still get us the form we need to fill out.” The girl looks a bit miffed, but picks up the phone and says “Chris, there’re two cancellations out here.” Oh, so that’s why the lady with a baby is standing to our right. We’re not the only one’s who refuse to accept “Walt isn’t here right now,” as a valid reason for getting stuck with a March debit.

Then, amazing enough, Walt waltzes in. Walt signs the form. Jeff signs the form. I stick the form in my purse, because there are two things I know better now than I did a couple years ago. One: Don’t sign up for automatic credit card debiting unless you really really need to, and two: Keep papers.

A beau bow.

No-one would accuse Rhode Island Avenue in College Park of resembling Diagon Alley. It has that typical bleak, inner D.C. Beltway, post apocalyptic, 60’s style panache, and is the site of Gailes’ Violin Shop, where the inside is better than the outside.

This time I went for a bow. And I wanted it to be a good bow, which put me at a slight disadvantage since I wouldn’t know one if I saw one.

So, I figured what I would do is walk up to the counter, trying to ignore all the music books whispering ”You need the Celtic fiddler’s book o’tricks...you know you do,” and ask the scary counter lady, who unquestionably would scoff if she knew what a pretender I was, if I could see some nice bows please. Then she would duck back a room, where Mr. Gailes’ and the grey-bearded, other smart-looking man were tweaking violins and grab a fistfull, and I would embarrassingly scratch out a few notes on my fiddle, hoping for invisible help from the invisible bow muse.

But, actually, she disappeared a bit deeper into the back than that, reappeared with nothing, and said she had a room ready for me.

And a nice room at that, with a special fold-down table on the wall--really rather like those diaper changing stations, but instead of Little Tikes plastic it was wooden, with a velvet-lined surface. And there, on the fancy fold-down table, was a special velvet-lined, slotted box holding an array of 15 or so assorted violin bows.

I smiled and thanked her, trying to look either smart or talented since I doubted I could look both, as she left and closed the door.

Here’s what I was hoping would happen as I looked at those 15 bows (which were probably snickering at each other like 7th graders waiting to see whether their substitute teacher can summon an ounce of authority.) I was hoping that when I picked up the right one, blue sparks would shoot cunningly from its tip, as if to say you have chosen well grasshopper, and when I placed it daintily against my fiddle strings I would realize that I was Bonnie Ridout afterall, or at least Charlie Daniels.

Not surprisingly, there were no sparks. But I was hopeful that that room was at least a little soundproof as I put each bow through a bit of Sheebeg Sheemore or Gilderoy. Ultimately, I chose one on the basis of feel and dumb instinct. The weight, the balance, and other senses which I have no particular reason to trust, but I chose one.

The two smart-looking men in the back oohed and ahhed a bit that I had chosen such a fetching and clever bow which turned out to have been made in France or thereabouts, 100 years ago or thereabouts. But then, it would have shown poor business skills on their part so say “you picked that? Hah! What the hell, ring’er up.”

I told the scary counter lady that I hoped the room had been soundproof, and if not, my apologies, and she quite charmingly confessed to having recognized many of my tunes and “enjoyed my selection.” No-one ever referred to my selection before, so again, I note that the people at Gailes’ violin shop at least know what to say.

So. I have a lovely old bow. And a lovely old fiddle. And lovely old fingers. The latter have some work to do.

teacher!

I've been on the lookout for a fiddle tutor, and after a bit of scouting, I've landed a spot on the roster of a young lady who teaches right at the Severna Park Music & Arts where Gabe takes drumming. That she looks half my age is probably nothing I should mind. There's no denying I squandered my best neuronal development years where music and language are concerned, but I will go with these words from RENT. There's only us, there's only this...forget regret, or life is yours to miss...no other road, no other way...no day but today...

truth.

For the rare person and several wafting dust motes who noticed that I went on a bit last week about a book called Expecting Adam by Martha Beck, you may be wondering why I’ve removed all references. I loved that book while I was reading it. It made me laugh and cry at the same time, and for several days after I finished I would have told you that it was one of the best books I’d ever read.

In fact, I loved it so much that I wanted to see if other people loved it as much as I did. So I started reading Amazon.com reviews. And most loved it, even if with slightly less fervor than I. But some didn’t. Some knew more about the author’s life and subsequent work than I did, and some included information that I tracked down to verify.

And now I’m left with what I’d call a trust issue. I loved the book partly because I believed, and the author insisted, that the events she was recounting were true as depicted. Now I have reason to wonder if she embellished flagrantly, completely fictionalized for the purpose of book sales, or is possibly just not stable.

One could argue that it doesn’t matter. Did I love the story? Is that not enough? For example, another book of which I’m very fond--Life of Pi tackles the very issue of whether the literal truth of a story even matters. But Life of Pi did not purport to be the author’s memoir.

I’m left with a sense of responsibility toward my readership. There's no question that I like to spoof, embellish, and bullsquat. But even dust motes deserve the truth if you say it’s the truth.

seasoned, with that trendy distressed patina

This weekend’s Parade newspaper-insert ragazine largely features Gail Sheehy’s ode to Baby Boom womens' new way of inhabiting the ages from 40 on. She calls us “Seasoned Women” and tells us in anecdotal vignettes and quick-read boxes what we offer to the world and what we want in return.

I hope I don’t sound like my usual cynical self, because I don’t mean to. I do want the stuff she’s telling me I want, and I agree wholeheartedly that “finding a new dream in midlife is about finding a new concept of oneself in the world.” It’s just kind of freaking me out a little that my personal new concept is a darn good hider. Oh, we will coax it out sooner or later, me and my friend Anxiety-monster. And then we will live in a harmonious trio which has room for purpose, wisdom, and the steady, calming practices of twitching in bed, and zoning out on crossword puzzles.

Did I miss a new rule?

It is not surprising that, in my important role as bipedal ATM, I would sometimes run out of cash. Often, therefore, I have nothing but 3 nickels and a penny in my wallet when it comes time to pay for the carry-out pizza, or the caramel latte and the vanilla steamer. At times like this, I am grateful that almost anywhere takes credit cards nowadays. But here’s the weird thing, and maybe it’s just my imagination. You hand over the card. The counter person hands you a credit slip to sign which--because you are at a food establishment--is identical to the sort you’d get at a full-service restaurant. In other words, it prints your cost with two blank lines underneath--one for “tip” and the other for “total.”

I don’t think the pizza guy expects me to tip him when he hands me my food and I hand him cash. There’s not even one of those little tip cups on the counter which have become so ubiquitous at everywhere from the snowball stand to the coffee shop.

But there’s something about being handed that credit card slip to sign, with the tip and total lines sitting there looking suggestively blank, that makes me imagine a scowl flitting briefly over the counter person’s face when I hand it back, signed, totalled, and tipless.