relax

I feel in a daze of paperwork and confounding budgetary configurations. I don’t know what to make of having our social security disability claim approved. I was led to expect a couple of appeals, and at least as many years. Now I’m kind of freaked out about the whole thing. You mean the evidence really was that irrefutable? Even to the U.S. Government? It was irrefutable enough for me, but somehow having Uncle Sam’s stamp of approval has heightened my anxiety in ways that I don’t understand.(Maybe because I don't want handouts so much as health insurance for Jeff, and this is the only way to get it?) And this, shortly on the heels of the obnoxious insurance company reaching the same conclusion. Sheesh.

And then there is the ongoing logic puzzle that is the Concert Association database. My respect for Mel’s (its creator’s) multi-layered confabulation grows as I think of ways to, oh for instance, generate a list of all members who drive Buicks and prefer to wear straw hats to performances...but only on days when their mail was delivered before 11 a.m. Sort it by hat size, secondary to dog’s name...find all members whose house numbers are prime, then exclude the records of those who aren’t before switching to the Stonehenge layout. I’m getting the hang of this. But I’m still getting Filemaker Pro when Apple deigns to release the new Leopard OS.

Jeff’s mom called at 1:35 a.m. Tell Jeff he has to go see Al Gore right away! she says.

Jeff needs to go see Al Gore? I repeat.

Don’t you know? she says, the meeting is going on right now!

You’re with Al Gore? I say.

Jesus! she says, hanging up on me.

Which was another surprise. Both Al Gore and Jesus were at that meeting and we missed it.

I'll be inspired later. For now...

Thoughts, disjointed...

We did the Wendy’s drive-thru window yesterday. Jeff wanted a crispy chicken and a coke. I just wanted a coke. I sort of giggled out the order, and all because the box crackled, as usual, then said tryacombo? It’s apparently a fundamental principle in which all Wendy’s order takers are drilled. You don’t say may I take your order or what can I get you or even what? You say Try a Combo, And the words just sit there, until they flatly plop to the ground ignored, because what do you say in response to that? I guess no thank you, but then you’d be trying to transmit more sound through the crackling box portal than is absolutely necessary, and this is not recommended.

I am so behind on Anne Arundel County Concert Association database entries. They will be sorry they gave me this job.

It is a nice thing when your daughters wait until they’re in college to have boyfriends. Easier on me, I think.

Gordon just picked Jeff up to go see their mom who’s having her regularly scheduled Spring crisis. Perhaps this one will resolve more neatly than last year’s coumadin disaster.

I got the second to last Wii in EB Games this morning. Nobody looks for video game consoles on Tuesday morning. Except for me, the lady in front of me, and the guy before her. And maybe one more person. So Gabe got his birthday present 6 weeks late.

I am waiting for further word, by text, email, or phone, from the Panamanian treetops. None yet, except the one letting me know she got there.

the pyramidal nebusphere

I live at some nebulous latitude in a pyramid of reality.

Jeff’s mom thinks we (and most of the rest of the world) can drop everything and sit in attendance as she makes her nobel prize-winning call to Lou Dobbs at CNN this afternoon. I try to avoid any pointless effort to convey my disbelief or re-orient her to the plane I’m living on, and I give her a noncommital “ok. sounds good. let us know what happens...” But I can hear it in her voice as we hang up...she may be living in a mental sphere in which she holds the solution to all problems, but she still knows when she’s being blown off.

Jeff doesn’t want to take his meds. “What are these for anyway?” “Your condition,” I say. “And what exactly is my condition?” Should I even remind him? Why? But I do. He says, “there wasn’t any real evidence of that, was there? Just some DNA test?” There was no DNA test involved, and I have the tell-tale PET scan in irrefutable hard-copy. I have never shown it to him. He’s never asked. Why should I?

“You should take your pills,” I say. He takes them. Why would I even entertain the thought of giving him a choice in the matter? He doesn’t even know what they’re for. I know why I would. It’s because there is one floor in the reality pyramid on which we stand together to observe and respond to his mother who’s floating around on the LaLa Mezzanine.

But we can’t both return to the rez-de-chaussée where I think I live. As the elevator descends Jeff says “Where’s Becca?” This will be the 5th time I’ve answered the question since she left yesterday morning. “She’s in Frederick, visiting Tyler,” I say. “Right,” he replies, and putters off to move tools around in the basement.

I don’t know where I live, and I have a slight, incipient headache. Eating might help, and then I will look into hot air balloons.

Fog and coffee

I came in from a dank, too-chilly morning. The kitchen was warm, and smelled like the fresh coffee gurgling in the pot. Momentarily sublime. And you might as well notice these things.

Kicking a cashew across the floor, and wondering if there are any more. Not quite as great.

Fleeting flashes of wondering what the heck Gabe's doing have zipped through my cerebrum at regular intervals this weekend. Then I remind myself that he's at his confirmation retreat, and I must go pick him up later this morning. He will say it was "ok." Then he'll tell me he slept through most of it. I do believe that to the largest extent I'm sending my final child through the program just so no one can accuse me of neglect. There will very possibly be some sort of cosmic benefit to the world that comes from Gabe having at least been introduced--however sleepily--to the concepts which form Presbyterianism, but that part doesn't have to be my problem.

It has to come up every so often. Jeff saying, "do you think you're addicted to that thing?" He means the computer. And I've kind of reached the "well, yes...but...whatever," state of response. Because here is the truth. I seek contact for brain stimulation. Before personal computers I checked the mailbox relentlessly. If I worked for SETI I would aim my little receiver at every point in the sky, and then go around and do it again just in case. I'm always looking for something to tune into to keep my brain from drifting back into that hazy and static-filled place two inches behind my frontal lobe where I get tweaked by shadowy specters demanding to know why I can't focus on the book I'm supposed to be writing. I don't want to have to wonder why I'm not accomplished enough for me. I don't even want to look at that. I hate that. It's a distraction and a relief to search for extra-terrestrials.

Ok...I'm lifting this from Rachel's livejournal, because I feel it's important:

"dialogue of the night... beginning with a nonsequiter from gabe, as usual:

Gabe: If i had a son, I would want to name him Yellow Streaming Madness.
Becca: That sounds like pee.
Gabe: Okay, how about Blue Motion?"

Well, I wasn't there. All 4 kids took an after-dark stroll to the beach, and that was a snippet.

I'm waiting for Jeff to get back from his class on "Stock Market Basics." There is a slightly smelly kitty on my legs, and the iBook must sit off to the right--on the chair arm. We took a practice run over to Annapolis High School (where the class is) today and I think he knew where he was going, but it's still a slight worry until the Honda van reappears in the driveway.

You know how sometimes you have a really busy weekend, and get behind on stuff? And then, the first day that you think you might be able to catch up, 4 urgent phone calls come in, all of which plop requirements right on the top of the priority pile? I'm having that.

I like my kids. It's fun when they're all home. The mess is not worth worrying about.