Gravity. It's real.

I am a little amazed by the number of people who visit the Grand Canyon and completely ignore the availability of railings such as this one. On the other hand, I recall Jeff himself setting out for rocky outcrops on hikes of yore, and sneaking careful peeks over a few precipices myself...but the GC is special. In the sense that there aren't too many other cliffsides where you have the opportunity to achieve terminal velocity before you reach the bottom. But here it's the norm.

After getting "home" to Flagstaff yesterday, I did a little online research into Canyon fatalities. Sources differ a bit, but it seems that no more than a person or so tumbles off each year, whether accidentally or on purpose. A more typical cause of death in the park is deciding you can hike to the bottom on your liter of Deer Creek bottled water. In point of fact, you probably can. What you can't do is get back up, and--without having carefully provisioned yourself with fuel, water, and proper clothing, you stand a decent chance of meeting your end due to heat stroke or other unfortunate system failure. Consequently, posters highlighting the dangers of hiking unprepared, the surprising rigor of the area, and demises of otherwise healthy individuals are prominent and ubiquitous.

Nevertheless, I'm surprised more silly people don't fall in. At our very first overlook yesterday we saw plenty of humans casually strolling the edge, including one who appeared to be about 6 years old (while his mother stood calmly on a rock nearby. I don't know...maybe they had other children and didn't need that one.)

Now I remember a time when Jeff and I hiked with friends in the woods of Pennsylvania. We came upon an overlook which had been carefully and responsibly railed, so as to give hikers a good safe look. A couple had climbed over, for no apparent reason. You could see just as well from inside the railing. The man held out his hand thinking surely I would want to join them on the other side. Here's the thing: I had a nine month old baby in a backpack on my back, and this couple thought I'd want to climb--already unwieldy and top-heavy--over the safety of the railing. I said no thank you.

I guess most humans are as agile and dextrous as they think they are. I just like to err on the side of caution.

a two-town tour.

Thoughts about Sedona: Geologically speaking, it is eye-poppingly stunning. I cannot think of another time I've said "yow!" or similar at every bend in the highway. I laughed when we passed a sign that said "Keep Sedona Beautiful." It meant don't litter. But I asked "how could you NOT keep Sedona beautiful?" and Jeff said "Nuclear explosion?"

Still, I did not come away with any good ideas about why you would go to Sedona other than for rock-gawking. It seems less a town than a series of clustered tourist shops, artfully placed at bends in the road, such that if "Mystical Astrologer" doesn't suck you in, then surely "The Pink Java Cafe" and its friends will. I am not every tourist-dependent municipality's dream come true. When I see another sign touting "Real Southwest Crafts and Jewelry!" I don't say "wheee!" and veer into the parking lot. Instead, I say, "Dang, there's gotta be a place to buy apples around here somewhere."

Then we went to Jerome. Jerome is about 25 miles west of Sedona, up some rather impressive switchbacks, and was, historically, a copper mining town. It is, as far as I can tell, populated by 90% tourists, 2% artsy shopkeepers, 4% long-gray-haired vintners, and 4% guys who looked like they got back from Nam in '71 and began to assemble flotsam and quirky jetsam into precarious shacks on 45 degree sloped, rocky hillsides. I could not help but sense that they were all chortling wryly behind their rusty pickups, and thinking "let's be weird for the tourists, then empty their wallets."

It was a good day of driving, and having a car--which we rented from Hertz at the Flagstaff Amtrak station--helped a lot. Today, our carriage pretty much turned back into a pumpkin by 4:00pm, so I brought Jeff home to the Inn, gave him a glass of wine, squished into the almost-big-enough-for-two chair with him, and played That Thing You Do, on dvd. Then I tucked him in bed. I hope he will still manage to sleep later than my 5:00am headache-avoidance wake-up call. Tomorrow, the Grand Canyon. The walking (down the vista trails) will be two things--a delight, and a surefire way to cash in our energy chips early.

nyet roomette.

We have a roomette. A roomette is one of many tiny convertible compartments running along both sides of a sleeping car, with an aisle down the middle.

It is on something of a whim that we are in one at all. This particular leg of our trip--Lamy, NM (the point of embark/disembarkation for Santa Fe) to Flagstaff--began at 2:24 this afternoon, and we will arrive in Flagstaff just prior to 9 pm. So, even at the very moment I was booking it, I wondered why I would pay even a little extra as opposed to just having seats in coach. We will not, after all, be converting our two facing seats into a bottom bunk, with the upper bunk lowering from above, like one of those baby changing stations in restrooms. This is mostly why people have roomettes. To more comfortably pass the night.

I think we have it because I was hoping we would nap, and I was thinking we might nap better in a compartment. But between a lengthy service stop in Albuquerque which we used to run to an ATM in the station, to the scenery of New Mexico's rocky crags, to dinner in the dining car at 5 pm, we have scarcely shut an eye. We will be, no doubt, in fine form when we do disembark in Flagstaff.

Having spent two nights in a "bedroom," Amtrak style, I can hardly imagine passing the night in this roomette. Well, I can imagine me doing it--I still like tents, after all--but I cannot imagine managing Jeff in one. I peeked in a few, during our other two nights aboard, that were in sleep mode. I'm not sure, actually, how one accesses the top bunk without opening the compartment door and protruding into the corridor while climbing. And, at that point, you're faced with the same lack of maneuver room or headroom I experienced in the bedroom top bunk. There is a bathroom at the end of the roomette car, much like what you find on an airplane, and several more down the stairs. Also downstairs are a couple of shower rooms, which--though communal--are of sufficient size that you don't have to sit on a potty to use them.

But--in our case--the more important disadvantages are that we'd be hard pressed to dress Jeff in such a space, I could not conveniently help him to the bathroom at 11, 1, and 3:00 at night, and we cannot see what's out the window on the other side of the train, because that's someone else's roomette, and they are evidently very private sorts who have the curtains drawn. In the bedroom, by leaving our curtains open, we had a good view out the windows in the corridor (as bedrooms line only one side of a sleeping car.)

So, while economizing with a roomette seems clever, our life has become the sort in which what we must do dictates what we can do. We can take an overnight train trip because we can book a bedroom. If we could not book a bedroom, we'd have to do something else.

It was, by the way, about 30º F in Santa Fe this morning when we set out, after breakfast, for a stroll across town. The purpose was to get liquid bandage for my cracky fingertips at CVS. The entertainment was crunching around on the frosted grass, and checking out the icicles dripping from a picnic table in the park.

we slow down...

We arrived in Santa Fe yesterday about 3:00 pm, and spent the rest of the afternoon/evening proving a fundamental rule about travel with Jeff: If you decide to march across town in search of rainwear, do not think you will have an ounce of energy left to spend getting to dinner.

In fact we should have skipped dinner and merely taken advantage of what nibblings we could wrangle up in the Inn on the Alameda, our 2-night Santa Fe home. It was a 15 minute walk from the Inn to El Farol (the oldest restaurant and cantina in Santa Fe) where we ordered wine and tapas, but Jeff's disorientation grew exponentially by each step, and I was carefully keeping him from walking into sign-posts (without 100% success) by the time we arrived at the restaurant. But we ate, and it was good. He will remember zero of it, as he was in the twilight zone.

Usually, when we walk, (especially in unfamiliar territory,) I try to stay on Jeff's left where there's a functioning ear and none of the hemi-neglect which occurs on his right. I either hold his hand or his arm. When the going gets tough, it's more like I'm clutching his elbow. I can gauge with a high degree of sensitivity how tired he is growing by how tightly I must clutch, and how difficult the walking becomes.

You know how it is when you end up with a grocery cart with one front wheel that only wants to roll east, and one rear wheel that insists on a counter-clockwise arc? That's what it's like to keep Jeff moving in the desired direction at anything approaching a walking pace. I end up as tired and in need of retreat as he does, with the difference that I still know where I am and why I'm there.

I like Santa Fe. Ok, I'm not completely overwhelmed by it like I thought I was supposed to be. Probably I need to see a lot more of the surroundings and natural beauty to grow a full appreciation. Certainly the architecture was novel compared with other places I've been. I like it. I just don't like it better than plenty of other places. Somewhat ironically, the only shopping we've done here is microlight stashable jackets from the local REI (we needed them for today's unfortunate weather,) and, from Whole Foods Market, fair-trade warm hats and a few apples. Well, not quite all...I bought earrings for the girls from a shop selling native made jewelry on Canyon Road, a linear enclave of artists' studios.

Despite today's being our only full day here, I've gotten a good feel for our limits, and we took the day on with little to no agenda. That worked. By 7:30 pm Jeff was well ready to hit the sack. Tomorrow: Back on the Southwest Chief, for a daytime-only ride to Flagstaff. But the morning agenda will be a jaunt to the closest drugstore to get some liquid bandage for the finger cracks this otherwise-welcome dry air is exacerbating!

Fog-man: He cometh and goeth.

Friday night on the train was a bit dreadful. I didn't experience it as completely dreadful though, since it was my first night of sleep deprivation in some time, and--in a way--I enjoyed the opportunities to see...Pittsburgh, Toledo, and some other random trackside burgs by night. Furthermore, breakfast and coffee brightened Jeff's mood and cognitive profile by enough that I ended up feeling optimistic.

Still, while I am very happy to be on the Southwest Chief myself tonight--Saturday--Jeff is looking and acting peaked, and I'm concerned that the experiment--2 nights by train--may have been pushing his limits. I hope that even though neither Santa Fe nor Flagstaff are home, we can do enough recuperating in a plush and sleepable bed that we'll reestablish something of his status quo.

Here's a difficult thing about the aspect of a human impaired by Alzheimer's: I see what looks like a down mood, a heavy head, a wan smile...and I want to call it depression, or a sad mood, or a heavy heart. And I want to consider the significance of those things as points relative to the norm--the norm being not-affected-by-Alzheimer's. But between those two points--the aspect I'm considering and a non-AD "norm"--there is a wide chasm. A tired, depleted person with Alzheimer's may not be so bad off as I imagine. I am possibly assigning the aspect more weight than I should. A nice sleep may be all that it takes, and the mood may not be one that I should be thinking of as extreme. (I realize, upon thought, that's it's our version of "sundowning," or the classic Alzheimer's condition of nighttime bringing a marked downshift in function and coherence.)

Well...let us see tomorrow. I think I'll be calling Rich the cabin steward to see if he can wrangle our compartment into sleeping configuration very shortly...

...In the glowing Colorado Sunday morning light, I can say that we slept much better last night. I gave the upper bunk a shot, thinking maybe elbow room would be helpful for both of us, but I quickly realized that from up there--with no room to sit up, no access to the cabin lightswitch, and a bit of contortionism involved in coming down--I was poorly positioned to help with the inevitable night-time bathroom requirements. So I shoved the upper bunk into stowed position as best as I could, and went with coziness below. It was the right choice. Fog-man, as we will call Jeff's nocturnal alter ego, had many concerns: Whose house is this? Why don't I have pants? Where are my pants? Maybe we should go home and get pants. Comfortable, snug, and with a fine view of the Kansas City rail station (where the passenger bridge strongly resembles a cattle chute,) I handled these questions with humor and aplomb, keeping Fog-man reasonably calm and settled, such that he could transform, by morning, back into a version of Jeff who appreciates coffee, breakfast, scenery, and a bit of adventure.

Sound fx

Overheard last night by any haunts hanging around our compartment, and possibly by the neighboring berths:

Squeeeeeonnnnnk Squeeeeeonnnnnk(The sound of miniature Amtrak sinks when you try to modulate the initial water burst.)

click rattle rattle rattle click rattle rattle rattle(cabinet doors that don't quite shut.)

Jeff: "Why are we here?" Me: "We're on a train trip to Chicago. Then we'll take the Southwest Chief to Santa Fe." Jeff: "What's moving?" Me: "The train we're on. It's supposed to move."

Fwoooooooooooonk! Fwoooooooooooonk! There's probably a reason they toot the choo choo's horn every whipstitch. I'm sure there's a reason.

Me: "Can you please lie down?" Jeff: "What are we doing?" Me: "We're on a train to Chicago. Can you put your head here? No, here. On the pillow."

chumma chumma chumma chumma... (some stretches of track are noisier than others.)

SSSSHHHHHOOOOOOOOMMPH! (This means we just passed another train.)

Me: "Hi, yeah...this is the fifth time you've woken me up...woohoo. But hey...look, it's Toledo, Ohio." Jeff: "Whose kitchen is that?" Me: "That's not a kitchen, it's the train station office" Jeff: "But whose house is that?" Me: "It's not a house, it's an Amtrak station in Toledo." Jeff: "Why are we moving?" Me: "We're on a train."

At 5 a.m. I gave up and got us ready for 6:00 breakfast.

On the Capitol Limited

This is something that cross-country trains have in common with Disney World: Everyone smiles and seems genuinely happy to help you. Not just the staff, but your fellow travelers as well.

It is now 6:35 pm, and we are trundling across some farmlands just west of Martinsburg, West Virginia. I'm not sure at what time Lou (our cabin attendant) will show up to transform our bench seat into a bed, but earlier--for us--would probably trump later. Neither of us is given to nightlife (not that there is any, that I know of, other than watching The Right Stuff for 3 hours with Carl 3 doors down.) But we won't take Carl up on his kind offer as much as I know he'd like our ears for another spell. One of us can only take so much of Carl with a C, and the other tends to turn in early.

Here's what I'm going to try to do once Lou does transform our berth into its nighttime morphology: Take a shower. What that means is I will sit on the potty and aim the handheld sprayer at my head for 30 second intervals of water. I will check back after giving that a whirl, and let you know how it goes.

Meanwhile, I can hardly complain about dinner. Yes, it is true that the salmon "special" was comparable to one of the nicer dishes at Denny's...but it was nonetheless agreeable enough, and the key lime and chocolate peanut butter desserts were completely worth the calories. And here's the thing: At dinner we were seated with (you guessed it) Carl with a C, who was much more tolerable in that setting as opposed to standing in the doorway of our compartment regaling(?) us with a one-way dissertation on Frank Sinatra trivia. You see, I actually had enough to say about Broadway musicals that he occasionally stopped to insert food into his mouth...

...It is now about 9 pm. I discovered that when our small collapsible table is in closed position, the underside reveals instructions for making our seat into a bed. So I did it. So far I am resisting deploying the upper bunk, and just sharing the lower. But first I had to figure out how to manage Jeff's elbows which he especially likes to tuck behind his head. So now I've got his head at the door end of the bunk, next to my feet. Ever since we put the bed down he's been commenting that he thinks he's in someone's rec room, and couldn't we find better accommodations? Hard to think this is the same guy who drove up the Al-Can highway in a VW on a whim. "Like what?" I said, to the question of better accommodations. "Like a hotel," he replied. "The problem with hotels," I said, "is that they don't move." Well...this will all feed into the end-of-trip evaluation process, as this whole thing is a bit experimental.

And oh yes...the shower...Here's how it worked: I stashed my shampoo on one back corner of the john, and my conditioner on the other. You push a button which allows you 30 seconds of spray. However, it takes a good 10 pushes before the water is warm enough that you'd care to aim it at yourself. Still, I got the job done. What I think I will not do is try to get Jeff showered until we're comfortably ensconced in our inn in Santa Fe.

Off and fumbling...

I am quickly squeezing in a moment of Wifi time. In just over 2 hours we'll board the Capitol Limited, which will take us--in our very own compartment--to Chicago. Neither the Capitol Limited nor the Southwest Chief--our homes for the next 2 nights--have Wifi, apparently, but here in the Acela First Class lounge at D.C. Union Station we're up and running.

We're also dozing a bit, which is appropriate given the hubbub of the bustling terminal we just closed the Acela Lounge door on. Most inconveniently, as full as Union Station is of dining choices and upscale shops, the restrooms in the terminal are in the midst of a 6 week remodeling, and all needy bladders are being shunted to the food court restrooms. The result of this is a short wait at the men's room, but--to no one's surprise--a line of 20 women before you even breach the doorway to the women's facilities. Hence, I stood watch by the men's room door as Jeff did his business, but held my own until after lunch when we went back to the Acela Lounge.

In flagrant disregard of a sign posted just next to where I'm sitting, we're munching chocolate cookies from Au Bon Pain, rather than merely availing ourselves of the Lounge-sanctioned snacks of chips and goldfish crackers. I am, however, properly consuming Amtrak/Green Mountain coffee from the lounge dispenso-matic.

Jeff has been in good form. I've been talking up our trip a good bit for the past week, and he's reasonably well oriented to the program. It helps, of course, that we're now in the tranquil Acela lounge, and out of the Barnes&Noble/Food Court/stairways/mobs/escalators of the Station-at-Large where I must remain appended to him at the elbow, turning him right and left like an upright vacuum. That can get on anyone's nerves. Both the turner and the turnee.

Stepping off the MARC commuter train, which took us from the BWI Airport train terminal to Union Station, Jeff failed to notice the gap and stepped down a foot and a half into the pit. Luckily that's all the deep it was, and a porter was positioned to help him as the gap was dicier than normal. Otherwise, so far so good. I am merely berating myself ever so slightly that I didn't think to brighten up his suitcase handles with yellow or orange tape so he'd know where to grab.

Blogging by iPhone is determined to be none other than a pain in the pinfeathers.

the danger of cookies

I cannot argue with evening cookies at a B&B.

That was the opening thought. The followup thought, which entered contention 24 hours later, is that neither can I argue with an evening cookie plus a glass of Gato Negro burgundy/merlot at the same B&B. These things counterbalanced the slip-ups and near misses as we almost lost Jeff several times over the course of a weekend.

Actually, I think we only almost lost him twice: Once, when Gabe--unaware of the weight that the instruction "watch your dad" now carries--failed to do so in the grocery store, and Jeff skedaddled down the row of cashier lanes after who-knows-who. I exited, to have a look outside and alert my mother to our code orange, while Gabe stood by in the store and soon apprehended his father, who was no worse for wear. The second time was when Jeff balked at the top of the escalator in New Haven Union Station as Mom, I, and about 100 other people took off for track 1 the second they gave us our track assignment. Which was about 2½ minutes before scheduled departure. I was half-way down yelling "Jeff! Get on!" as an anxious crowd formed a clog behind him. With my roll-aboard occupying one hand, and my satchel of paperwork the other, he had to follow me without physical contact.

Mom is no doubt wondering (as she sits just behind me in Amtrak Coach, New Haven to BWI,) exactly how I plan to hang onto Jeff next week, as we depart on our cross-country train trip just as the two of us. The only answer I can supply myself is that--without the presence of a third party to help--my diligence dial will be set at maximum. Additionally, I intend to inscribe or embroider my cell phone number, in large numerals, on his black "sport-band" medical alert i.d.

As for the trip--we come away with the positive sense that Gabe is striding in the direction of independence and adulthood, and it was a fine thing for his grandmother to get a glimpse of his current school and world. I also continue to be impressed that maritime Connecticut is a region I could happily pass a good deal more time in. Mark Twain's house was not enough. I'd very much like to see the Mashantucket Pequot Museum of Native American History (bypassing the Foxwoods casino, operated by the same tribe,) and hit a few choice stops on the Connecticut Wine Trail.

Texts from the home-front indicate that Hazel will not eat her medicated food when I have so rudely interrupted her expectations by vamoosing, but I hope she'll get over it. I am not anxious to institute the wrapped-cat and pill-plunger method of cyclosporin delivery. Hence, I am feeling a tad guilty, especially in light of the fact that we'll be hitting the road again in 5 days. But really...here's the choice: Spend an extra week mollifying a fussy kitty, or experience (for the very first time) a sleeper car. No choice at all. Sorry Hazel.

applecarts are made for upsetting.

Lately I've been inclined to notice that my pet-load is, for me, at a plateau of relative manageability. I've had more and I've had fewer, but Chessie, Freddi, and Hazel--while none the most easy-going of critters--have established preferences and ways of dealing with each other such that, pet-wise, we were as close to equilibrium as we ever get.

It is true that both Freddi and Hazel require expensive pills--Freddi for her funky dysplastic hips, and Hazel for her funky overexcitable immune system--but we've got everything tamped down to a sub-acute level, routines in place...well, they were.

There's a recognizable pattern that's followed me through life: As soon as I start telling myself "this, I can handle..." then it's time to look for the next ball to thwang, fast and furious, into left field. This time, the ball's name is Otis, and he comes to us thanks to BARCS (Baltimore Animal Care and Rescue Shelter,) and the fostering tendencies of Olivia's boyfriend's kin.

Otis just got neutered on Tuesday, and he's roughly the size of a large squirrel. He moved in last night, and Becca kept him company on the computer room couch where--if I have the story straight--she got minimal sleep, but experienced a good bit of pouncing kitten. As of today, his "room" is Freddi's dog crate (the one she uses for thunderstorms,) in the middle of the kitchen, where he can see (and therefore acclimate to) the noises and personalities with which he can expect to be surrounded.

This is a well-socialized kitty. No feral tendencies whatsoever, as he was born into foster care. You pick him up, and he shuts his eyes and yawns languorously, stretching a bit, anticipating a belly rub. But, with the other animals, he's got some stuff to work out. Only it's not his stuff, it's their stuff.

Freddi hasn't a maternal bone in her body, that I can detect. Possibly, it was located in the top ball of her femur--the one they took off due to dysplasia when she was 1 year old. But it's gone now, and--in her opinion--kitties should be toys. Hence, their interactions mostly involve Freddi bouncing at Otis, who sequesters himself under a hutch, or chair, until the dog is distracted by anything else. We must take care--Freddi's bouncing 45 lbs could be a safety hazard to a kitty who has not yet learned the value of a well-placed bop on the nose, claws optional.

Chessie and Hazel, both divas who merely tolerate, and occasionally taunt, each other, don't seem to be of the opinion that another cat was needed here. Hazel makes sure we're clear on her feelings...yes, I may rub her back...yes, I may turn on the sink a trickle for her drinking pleasure...but she's going to emit a low growly howl the whole time, just so I know I am NOT in her good graces. (Hazel would especially not appreciate Otis' countertop explorations today, when--upon discovering the kitchen sink--he promptly peed in it. I'm discouraging further countertop adventures for now.)

I am in good shape through the upcoming weekend. On Monday, Olivia will return to college, and it will be up to me and Becca (but mostly me, due to work and boyfriend obligations,) to keep everyone happy.

I like it pretty.

Who gets a headache from vegetarian sushi? Well, me. Yesterday was the second time I noticed what appears to be a cause and effect relationship between the Fresh Market veggie rolls of which I’m fond, and a follow-up headache. I’m going to blame it on the MSG. There should not be MSG in sushi--absolutely no excuse for it--but there it was, plain as splotchy grocery store label font, slapped on the tray. MSG. And not only that, but aspartame. eh...what?

Now that I think this through, I do recall that the Fresh Market veggie rolls had a little more zizz...a little more bite than the comparable ones I’ve gotten at Whole Foods Market. Not that you’d expect too much zizz from rice, a few strips of carrot, and a plug of avocado. That’s what the small plop of wasabi they give you is for, if you so desire. And now that I know the truth, and its effects, I’m ready to rededicate myself to the crunchy ideals of Whole Foods ingredient taboos, and hone my appreciation for carrot as carrot.

In Annapolis, there are three main competitors in the not-your-mainstream-grocery-store game. The two aforementioned plus Trader Joe’s. This trio meets my grocery needs. I only venture into the closer-to-home Giant and Safeway when I have an urgent need. I admit to being a food and shopping elitist, but plead that my reasons are legit, and grounded securely in honest self-knowledge.

Safeway (west a couple miles, in the vicinity of my mom’s and sister’s homes,) is almost tolerable. They just don’t have everything I like. Giant (closest to me) is a total sensory trial. The lighting is harsh, disorienting, and leaves my brain swimming in a sort of paranoid surreality. The aisles are tall, canyonesquely narrow, and chock-a-block with items, only 0.75% of which I’d ever consider purchasing. This makes finding what I want a bit like playing Where’s Waldo?(.) There are a few other popular American franchises that have a similar effect on me. I walk in and react as if someone just blew an airhorn, turned on a disco ball, and launched a line of dancing Glenn Becks in my face. In other words, I want to leave.

I don’t exactly know how to account for my reaction. I cannot believe that a major player such as Giant Food has not done exhaustive merchandising research. Apparently I am just a psychological outlier.

The Fresh Market, on the other hand, taking over the space held by Whole Foods until they moved to bigger digs, is pretty. It’s restful. It’s calm. They play nice music. They give you free tiny coffees. They do not, however, have the purity of ingredient shtick thing that defines Whole Foods Market. If I had to summarize Fresh Market’s niche in one line, it would be “we’re prettier than those guys.” You can get napkins or paper plates, but they’re going to be pretty. There are a few cosmetics, but only pretty ones. And if it’s food that comes in a jar, it’s going to be a pretty jar. Of that you can be sure. That of which you cannot be sure is whether a given item will contain chemical additives that you’d typically prefer to avoid. Some things do, some things don’t. It takes label reading. (And now, in my case, 1.50+ pocket-sized magnifying glasses which--I think--I got at Whole Foods.)

I’m sure that I will continue to covet and purchase chocolate cupcakes with white frosting from Fresh Market. Also, indubitably, Thomas’ cinnamon-raisin bagels, unsalted mixed nuts, and a batch of other items which can be happily obtained from any member of my grocery trio.

But when it comes to veggie sushi...well, we’ll let Whole Foods speak for itself, from its own website:

“We carry natural and organic products because we believe that food in its purest state — unadulterated by artificial additives, sweeteners, colorings, and preservatives — is the best tasting and most nutritious food available.”

And least likely, in the case of sushi, to give me a headache.

So yep. That’s me: crunch-elitist. (except where cupcakes are concerned.) I will be sure not to run for President, because the populists would probably use this against me.

Alpha house, alpha kitty

Today, at Clement Hardware, I charged the following items to the Jeff Clement account: 2 bungie cords (for helping Rachel move tomorrow a.m...might need'em to hold down the hatch, if mattresses are too big, and the rest of this stuff has nothing to do with Rachel's move...) 1 can Great Stuff spray-foam (for sealing the gaps between the drywall and tile in the bathroom ceiling,) 1 tube marine-grade silicone caulk (for rain-proofing the back threshold,) 1 roll foam caulk (which I'll stuff in the crack before applying the silicone,) 1 roll of tubular vinyl gasket (for attempting a waterproof seal on the lower back door, thus banning rain influx forever,) and 1 bag of spice drops (because we never get out of that place without spice drops. I don't eat them. Don't look at me.)

Accompanying this initiative is a decidedly pleasant peaceful feeling, leading me to believe I may, finally, be reaching some sort of emotional accord with this house.

I'll be honest--I've entertained the notion for years that I'd run away...nay, that I MUST run away...to Eastport (popularly known, locally, as The Maritime Republic of Eastport.) It's just across the drawbridge from Historic Annapolis, and has held the role--in my daydream--of the place which would shake me out of the Alzheimer-caregiver 'am I eighty years old, or what?' doldrums.

But now let's be really honest--I would still require a house. It would still require maintenance. I would still be in charge of the maintenance. I would still be an Alzheimer caregiver. Life would not suddenly start to happen in new and surprising ways, and I seriously doubt if Clarence (my cross-eyed muse,) would improve in work ethic by any measure just because of a change of residence.

Those things are pretty much true. But I attribute my improvement in attitude to factors other than logic and reason. All the road-tripping I've done this Fall has, and will be, a big help. And I do believe that fixing the downstairs shower drip was--in a weirdly out of proportion way--a breakthrough moment. (Thanks to brother-in-law Fred, who was big help with that project.) Somehow, I've acquired the feeling that, by tackling maintenance bug-a-boos one on one (and even very slowly,) I am establishing an alpha position with this house that I never required prior to Jeff losing his powers. So, in a way, this house is a little like a big dog over which I had no control, so I wanted to give it away and get a puppy instead.

If it is well-maintained and orderly, it no longer feels like a box in which I am trapped. If I know I CAN sell it if I want to, I no longer feel a panicky compulsion to do so.

Thus, the latest bag of Clement Hardware goodies. Next up: weather-seal the back door. Staggered, in the interest of covering all the bases, with reading Bill Bryson to Jeff, eking out a line or two of my book, getting the heck out of here once in a while, and not-cooking.

Who knows? Cooking may be the next dog I stare down. But I doubt it.

(And have I mentioned that a new kitten is moving in here next week? Because apparently our 3 existing pets aren't needy enough? Stay tuned...)