A poem, by Gabe Clement:
Look! It’s the Invisible Man!
Can’t you see him?
With his dark brown coat
and long black hair.
Don’t look him in the eyes--
He has the creepiest stare.
If you give him a hug, he’ll give you a toy.
But you didn’t hear this from me,
‘Cause I’m the inaudible boy.
There is the slightest chance that med #2 may be having the most slight of positive effects. I feel rather glumly certain that med #1 has had no such benefit. (so do we keep buying it at ridiculous name-brand drug expense? Why?) But as for #2...could it be responsible for the reduction in backyard flotsam...the steady progress on door refinishing...the near-completion of a chapter book (ok...Robert B. Parker, but what the heck.)?
How does one even know? What if it is helping? Of course I am glad if it is. Of course I must be glad if it is. Of course I want to see the best things I can see. Of course. It is best to smile and ignore the second little voice screaming from the back of my brain “Why don’t you just kill me now and get it over with?? What? You think I want to go through this again?
Of course we will ignore that little voice. And of course, we know that any benefit derived from med #2 will be temporary, and will not change the timing or the direction of the eventual trajectory. But of course--if one more Spenser book can be read...if one more decent conversation can be had--who would turn that down? And we can ignore the little screaming voice. Or at least pat it, and say “there there,” as it shrieks “you’re teasing me! Don’t give me a warm fuzzy if you’re not going to let me keep it!”
Once, when I was 15, I had a ring. (I was not a cute and nubile sort of 15. I was more of the gangly and awkward type of 15. The picture of the aphorism: It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.) I don’t remember where I got the ring. It was sterling silver, and basically a continuous strand, the diameter of string, which looped into a pretzel shaped knot. That was its decoration. I liked it.
One day--a nice day I think--I was sitting in the front yard with Duane. Duane was our exchange student from South Africa. Duane did not worry about being thought a fool. She was not. She was 2.5 years older, and several decades more mature, than I. We were sitting in the front yard, and Jeff came over from across the street. He was 29. I knew him as one of Corky’s older brothers whom I didn’t know other than to know him as one of Corky’s older brothers. But he was in our front yard to meet Duane. They chatted. I remained silent, as was the wisest move in my view, and stayed at a safe 10 or so feet away in the grass. I was playing with my ring. Fiddling with it. Taking it on and off. Duane was sitting in the grass, and Jeff was standing, in a spread-leg posture so that he would be lower to the ground, talking with her. I kept playing with my ring. I dropped it.
Then, I couldn’t find my ring. I was looking for it, but most discreetly, because the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to the fact that I’d lost something. Because then I might have to talk. Well, Jeff was still standing there, spread-legs, and without a word he flung something at me. My ring. He was 10 feet away, and I’d merely dropped it.
For the past 2 years or so, when I’m in that weird state between awake and asleep, I am seized with the notion that someone/something is trying to take my rings. Not the silver knot ring. I don’t have that. It disappeared in the transitional college years. My current rings are my gold wedding ring which is too big, and my enagement ring which is not too big and holds the wedding band on. So, typically, I’m lying in bed not-quite-asleep and I feel a little panic. I can’t articulate who or what is trying to take my rings, but it’s something. Sometimes I take them off. Sometimes I put them on my bedside table, and occasionally I get up and carry them over to my earring box and put them in it. But I’m not quite awake. Just aware enough that, when I get up in the morning, I know what I did and can find the rings.
I don’t know why I do that. I don’t have any other freaky sleep, or almost-sleep, disorders. Maybe I just know something is taking something important away from me.
Our basement needs work. While I’ve attacked it in the past, even 5 years of clutter can seem impossible. Jeff has been working at getting some of his lumber flotsam up and out, but he tends to rummage in the non-lumber areas as well, and it is not uncommon for the basement to belch up several books, or another oddment which I’m just not ready to deal with yet.
Let’s leave that in the basement, I say. I’m just not ready to sort it yet. So back down it goes. Usually with me.
Today’s surprise basement burpage was a batch of semi-unrolled blueprint packets, strewn copiously across the kitchen counter. I recognized them. 228 Otterbein St--the first place we lived together.
Iiiiiigg I splutter, my clutter-aversion anxiety beginning to knot up my innards. What’s this doing here?
I did this, says Jeff, spreading out one of the rolls. I planned this, and drew it, and built it. Me and [cousin] Robin.
My knot unknots. My angst unangsts. I look at the drawing. A detailed rendering of a house--carefully measured, intricately marked, detailed features neatly sketched in. Look, Jeff says, I used to be able to do this stuff.
Yes, I say. You did do it. And it’s good. You pretty much designed and built the house we’re in right now too. Smile. Hug. The blueprints disappear later without my asking.
My right thumb is bundled up in a band-aid like a little peasant char-woman in winter. Constant wrappage seems the only way to convince the tiny crack--born of cold, dry air--that it is, in fact, appropriate to heal. It may be healing. But it resembles the fissure it was closely enough that I’m reluctant to unwrap it yet. 2 more days maybe.
Here is my goal and job for now. Preparing. One of the necessities being to create as manageable, unconfusing, and clutter free house as possible under the circumstances. I’m happy to get rid of stuff. Contact me if you want stuff. Personally, I don’t want stuff.
We’ve had an ongoing discussion about the lyrics to A Whole New World, from Aladdin. I was sure--really really sure--that Aladdin says “shining shimmering splendor.” It only makes sense, after all, to follow up two adjectives with a noun if you want a well-rounded phrase. But Olivia--who should know, as it is on her iPod--insisted that he says “shining, shimmering, splendid.” I had to look it up. It is “splendid.” As Gabe pointed out based on a lyrical analysis--”If it said ‘splendor’ instead of ‘splendid’ then you’d have to change the next line--’Tell me princess, now when did you last let your heart decide’ to ‘tell me princess now when/or did you let your heart decide.’ Makes no sense Mom, now does it?” The kid is correct. When you’re wrong, you’re wrong.
I wonder sometimes, if I allow myself to sink into this quiet world where overstimulation is to be avoided, and communication depends on a true ability to live in the moment...will I be there forever? Will that become my permanent world? But I trust that it is a groundless fear. I should be able to segue, like an amphibian living half in the water, half on land. Both worlds have their particular beauty and a healthy creature, designed for such, can interface with either.
At times I’ve thought about what I would do if I were in jail. Just a plain, dank, standard jail cell. Colorless. Not much, it would seem, to offer. What would I do? But most jails--at least around here--have a library, have ways to access learning, and have people to interact with. One can write, one can study. There is never nothing to do. Even if you’ve got no resource to draw on but the creativity of your own mind and a piece of chalk to scratch on the wall with, there are means to create in vivid color.
When you’re bummed, he’s bummed, and it soon becomes obvious that your entire support network is likewise bummed, it’s time to say, “Cool. We’re all bummed! Time to move on.”
People probably wonder how you can possibly live in hell. But to some people, bugs are hell. To others, shoveling snow is hell. To others, 95°F in the shade is hell. So you say, “It’s not hell. You just plan differently. And do things differently, at different times. And enjoy the heat. Ok?"
This is a most interesting chunk of weeks. When we are home I’m trying to locate myself just ahead of, or just behind, the work crew who may be doing anything from spackling the hall ceiling to applying window trim in a bedroom. While I’m completely accustomed to stepping over dropcloths or pneumatic nailers as a matter of daily routine, tripping over guys who barely know me hasn’t been a regular thing since a couple years ago.
It is also a time speckled liberally with unnerving visits to a stunning array of docs and diagnostic venues. Jeff’s default tendency to live in the moment is serving him well from the standpoint of his nerves, but mine are running a bit on edge as I can’t really turn off my mental map of the overall diagnostic schema and where it may be leading. The advantage to this coinciding with having contractors is that they usually park Jeff in, lessening the odds that he’ll duck out for a Wendy’s chicken sandwich and I’ll lose him at a critical moment.
Hazel has picked now to exhibit a flare-up of pink belly. Maybe it’s just the season, or maybe it’s that she got into the other cats’ food which is causing her immune system to complain about the onslaught of proteins other than duck and pea, but whatever the case--she’s just going to have to hang in there, or drive me to desperation before she gets hauled in for a steroid injection. Freddi meanwhile, is getting more walks than usual, but otherwise having to tolerate the one finished room with a closeable door--Gabe’s bedroom. Had she not attempted to eat the contractors’ dog (twice her size) a few days ago, she might have more liberty, but you just can’t turn that terrier tenacity off with a switch.
Jeff’s old college mate, French, is in town for an ecumenical ministry conference in D.C. We got him from the airport to his hotel with a brief diner lunch yesterday, and will retrieve him for a two-night stay chez nous on Thursday before redelivering him to the airport. And in a way, this might be the perfect time for such a visit. Who could possibly present the expert hostess façade under present conditions? I’m sure he’ll be quite happy, once he’s dodged several stepladders en route to the room I’ll put him in, to join us for two days of meals away from what my friend Katherine has dubbed “topsy-turvy land.”
Sadly, I am inescapably low on lunchbox whatnots, and must fit a trip to the grocery store in somewhere today. That will be after today’s doctor thing.
Gabe is showing Jeff a card trick. He shuffles, and says “tell me when to stop.” Jeff stares diligently at the flipping cards and says, “King of spades?” Gabe says “no, just tell me when to stop shuffling.”
There are some not-half-bad Whole Foods brand pizzas in the freezer. That’s what’s for dinner. I do not feel so ambitious as to cook something tonight. Even dessert. So the oven is preheating to 390° F. (What kind of a weird setting is 390°?)
Gabe says “watch closely and try to guess how I know which card to stop at.” Jeff stares intently. “You bent a corner back?” (Bravo, I think. That is in fact a trick I’ve known Gabe to use. But it’s not right this time.)
I will need to remember to go to the wine store tomorrow. Jeff keeps bringing home this stuff called “Black Box.” It is, in fact, housed within a box. But within the box is a plastic bag with an attached spigot with which you dispense the Chardonnay. It is not bad as wines for cheap people go, but it kind of somewhere between annoys and amuses me that the only way to dispense the last glass is to remove the plastic bag from the black box, unsquish it, snip a hole in it for good air flow, and dispense. Somehow I feel like I’m drinking wine from an IV bag. It is not sufficiently cheaper for me to tolerate that strange aesthetic. Tomorrow I’ll look for a nice cheap French bottle.
Tonight we got about .25 inches of snow. They’re calling for “wintry mix” later. (That should either be a form of Chex cereal based snack containing chestnuts, or a cd compilation featuring Christmas classics.) At any rate, the question remains: will the wintry mix delay school tomorrow morning? Will my intentions of getting Jeff to the new neurologist with plenty of time to spare be impeded by school shuttling concerns? Only Mr. Cold Miser knows.
Olivia calls to find out what’s for dinner, or more specifically, whether it’s something “good.” Whole Foods frozen pizzas do not qualify, so we negotiate as to whether I will subsidize her stopping at Ledo’s on the way home from work. I concede up to $5. Deal.
Jeff is standing next to my computer stool at the counter. In one hand he holds a glass of IV bag wine, and in the other, a slice of Whole Food pizza. I can’t help but note the vast departure in dining styles from my childhood of setting the table, and serving each plate with a well-balanced combination of salad, meat, vegetable, and starch. I think two things: One--It’s nice to re-experience that delicacy when we eat with my mom (except in that few of us eat the meat portion anymore,) and two--Don’t worry. I know better than to try this at home.
Wintry mix update: Liva calls. On the way home from work she hit an icy patch and does several total 360’s. Fortunately there were no cars around, and she pulled into a lot. I offer to hike 1/2 mile and drive her car home, but assure her that it should be ok if she does it slowly. I don’t know how slowly she went, but she’s home without incident in what seems like 3 minutes.
There just aren’t enough people here. The girls are gone, and Liva, though technically in residence, is trying to condition me to her eventual flight by having a 24 hour social life. I do actually appreciate Gabe’s occasional card trick.
I had a sneaking suspicion about the calendula ointment on Jeff’s bathroom sink. I was not aware of any burns or rashes he needed to treat, yet there it was, conveniently stashed behind the cold water handle. I asked. He allowed as how the toothpaste has had a funny taste this week. I couldn’t help but note that the tube design bears no resemblance to Tom’s of Maine, nor have we ever tried a flavor that comes in a clear yellow gel, but you know, I guess they could make one.
Agua Clara is on the touchy cd player. For now. Once I shut a drawer over there a little too hard it will stop, protesting that its cd insertion door is OPEN. Silly thing. Years ago, Gabe made what is meant to be some sort of ball shaped vase in school, shiny with brown glaze. It is a useful wad of ceramic to place on top of the cd player's lid to fool it into thinking it’s closed, but it’s still a touchy thing, and reacts to the slightest bumps. Agua Clara is a Peruvian group. They were playing in Penn Station a couple weeks ago, and so pleased me in a mere 5 minutes that I bought their cd. Lots of hooty bamboo flute type instruments, with guitar and percussion.
This has been Pride and Prejudice immersion week. In addition to watching the ‘06 movie for the 4th time, I read the book, and watched the film once again with the director’s commentary running. Now I am very much wishing we had house guests, staying for 10 days, or 6 weeks or so, who would be keeping company with me in the drawing room where we’d play cards or engage in clever conversation. A prerequisite, of course, is that this whole fantasy would come with a cook and housekeepers. I do not require the fully outfitted guys who, one per chair, would push each diner’s chair in as we sit.
Our quick NYC get-away was, as usual, all in all a good thing. There is a remarkably endless array of places to eat. I really like places to eat, so it grieves me slightly to pick one in the sense that I must forego numerous others in the same neighborhood. Other times, other times.
Among the more discordant notes, there is nothing like a trip to exacerbate the noticeable neuropsychiatric deficits of chronic Lyme. Sometimes it means you fiddle around with your continental breakfast uncertain whether you need to pick up a fork, move your coffee cup, or get the muffin out of the way before you can eat your fruit. Your partner will almost certainly have to stop frequently, when walking in crowds, to make sure you haven’t lost sight of her, which you will do. A lot. You will not understand, or be able to keep track of, the day’s agenda even if your partner has discussed it with you several times. It is highly likely that if there are several blocks to go before you get to the subway stop (from which you will take a 30 minute ride across Queens to Forest Hills,) that you will forget that you haven’t done the subway part yet and ask a random stranger, in Greenwich Village, if he knows how to get to Forest Hills. This will chagrin your partner more than it does the random stranger who will merely look confused. It is also highly probable that, once on the subway, you may forget to sit down or grab the pole, and you will fall into the lap of yet another random stranger. Most random strangers, in my experience, are fairly good-humored.
The Hotel Gansevoort is a great place to stay if it entertains you to watch (from eight floors above) an endless processional of yellow taxis circling the block as they drop off and retrieve the hip in-crowd. I found it entertaining at midnight, and still so at 2 a.m. when my bladder called. By 7 a.m there was only a cab or two on the street, but there was a NY Times on our room door in a gray cloth bag.
The girls are all out. Somebody got Clunkola the Jeffmobile. I suspect it was Becca. It must be one of the pitfalls of middle child-dom. You get the yucky car. I feel strongly that I would like to go to bed tonight. Last night I got to feeling yucky on the train, and still did when we retrieved our car which was sadly low on fuel. We found a non-functioning BP station where Jeff failed to notice that he was not filling the car with gas while I discreetly barfed in the empty stretch of grass next door. Fortunately it was after midnight and no one was about. Fortunately no cop stopped to question whether I was fit to drive. Fortunately I was, as it had nothing to do with alcohol. And the next gas station had gas. But I just don’t think I can do the wait-up-for-the-girls thing tonight.
Today we discussed how there was no way for me to help Jeff with his activities of daily living without being--at various times--annoyingly solicitous, annoyingly impatient, or just plain annoying. He assured me that it is not a focused irritation he displays, and I must not take it personally. He is mad, he is frustrated, he is irked. But then, who wouldn’t be?
I do not, just because it’s New Year’s Day, have any particularly meaningful comments to make. The word observations, in this context, would mean pretty much the same thing as comments and I don’t have any good ones of those either, so I’ll make some stupid ones.
I really ought to go turn off the coffee pot so its little red light will stop reminding me to drink more. Even though it’s half-caf. Enough is enough.
This is the first New Year’s Eve in three years that I haven’t been hit by a surprise wave of melancholy while deciding whether to go to bed early or watch dumb tv. A distant friend in Scunthorpe sent me cheering words each of those times, and greatly appreciated those words were, but somehow I dodged the wave this year.
One apple pie does not go far in a house with Jeff and Gabe. If I’m going to bother, I may as well make two.
A kind and clever neighbor has a niece who lives in Paris. He responded to my expressed twinge of envy the following way: “The way I see it, you’ve got sky, you’ve got ground, you’ve got shelter and a warm bed pretty much anywhere you go, if you’re lucky.” Very true. Dandelions could be quite charming if all you’ve got is bougainvillea.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?)
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.
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.
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.
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.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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I’ll be needing a job soon. Not so much for money, though pocket change is nothing to sneeze at. I cannot assume I’ll ever make money writing, though write I must, and it’s quite certain that no-one will pay me for playing fiddle or whistle. As far as I know, there is no money to be had in being a student of languages, or a crossword puzzler, so fortunately, no, it is not so much about the money.
It’s about being in the world. I’m noticing that my kids are getting pretty grown up pretty fast. As their explorations become outwardly focused I’m standing here thinking you can’t leave me here in this stinking house! Houses are boring!
I’m not sure where I will go for a job. Maybe a music shop. I’ve thought about even fixing lattes. I just need to see and interact with real live people on a regular basis, and with some continuity.
It kind of stinks that there’s no branch of Lark in the Morning in Annapolis, or on the East Coast for that matter. And I’m still kind of hoping that the cosmos will drop a “help wanted” clipping on my head so the direction to go will be obvious. But I’m afraid that, as usual, I’ll have to suck it up and figure this one out on my own.
Narnia did make me think. It was, all in all, a pretty good flick. As one who has read much by and about C.S. Lewis, I could not separate my awareness of the story’s Christian underpinnings from my viewing experience, so I was forced, as always, to confront my discomfort with what many consider fundamentals of Christian ideology.
In particular, the notion, beloved by many Bible thumpers, that that which we call God requires a blood sacrifice as due payment for human foibles. (Hence, of course, if you follow this line of thinking, Jesus stepping in as the killee.)
I’ve had some pretty good talks with that which I think of as god in my lifetime, and have never gotten a sense of its being that sort of blood-demanding tribal chief. But the language of the film’s analogy got me to thinking. (I’ll note that I was a great fan of the books as a young adolescent and read them all, despite my mild annoyance at the way Lewis glibly and callously wrote Susan out of the story toward the end.)
When young Edmund, one of the four principle Narnia kids, screws up big time, the bad witch points out to Aslan the lion (the Jesus counterpart) that there is “deep magic” in the land which dictates that Edmund’s life/blood/what-have-you now belongs to her, and it is for this reason that Aslan arranges to sub for Ed on the chopping block.
This is why allegorical stories can be a fine thing. They give you another vista on an archetypical theme. So in Narnia, the thing that’s going to get you is deep magic. What might that translate into in the universe as we know it? I honestly cannot envision a deity standing there, foaming at the mouth, as it demands blood be spilled because you stuck those lifesavers in your pocket (without paying) when you were seven. If the archetype of sacrifice works for so many people of religion there has to be a less primitive explanation.
I would suggest this: The human is a rare beast in its existential self-awareness. I have walked through (for example) the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem and felt the weight of human guilt on my shoulders, and I’ve no doubt that many of my species have also experienced similar guilty pain at their awareness of the depths of atrocity to which people can sink. If the sacrifice archetype works for you maybe it’s because you yourself need someone to say “It’s ok, you can let go of the guilt,” and maybe, if you’re of the Christian persuasion, the person of Jesus fills the bill. I think we sear the red A for Accountable into our own forearms with a hot iron. Nobody named God condemned you to death.
Personally, I have no particular conviction that Jesus was actually thinking of this stuff when he was executed for what looked pretty much like political reasons. But I have a sort of sense that like the ten avatars of Vishnu, god can fill a great variety of needs, and for someone in need of salvation theology, god can be that shape.
In my dream I suddenly found myself to be the free and clear owner of a lovely, clean, light-filled house (for the purposes of the dream, my sister had given it to me--but I don’t think that was relevent in the interpretive sense,) and the thing is, I didn’t want it.
Why am I supposed to want this house,I thought to myself, and what am I supposed to do with it? I was quite certain that my real life was somewhere out there--as in not in that house--and staying there, keeping it, would be an impediment. But not to worry--it was just a weird dream.
Here’s an ailment that doesn’t play fair: Parkinson’s disease. So now they’re telling me that fewer years of education and a smoking habit lower your risk? I don’t think the news will induce me to stop studying Spanish, but perhaps I’ll jog the stairs with greater diligence, and...
...keep up the coffee habit. It’s encouraging that something so decadently addictive has Parkinson’s inhibiting properties in addition to its growing reputation for being chock full of antioxidants. Yum to coffee. And cheers to the nightly glass of vino.
The pursuit of a working fiddle has taken me to some interesting places. This summer it was the third floor of Lexington and Calvert, downtown Baltimore, to the Perrins’ violin shop--a bank headquarters in its former life, where now the walk-in safes in every room house spare pegs and bows. The Perrins guys gave me a nice fiddle set-up, for which I paid nice fiddle set-up rates--but still I had problems.
When, after a couple months of cranking out the five tunes I’ve learned well enough to not break your ears, my E and A pegs reverted to shameless and relentless slipping, I decided to try something else. I called Thomas Melton, whom I’d gotten wind of via the Acousticopia music shop in Annapolis.
It was a forty-five minute drive south, to a cul-de-sac at the tip of Churchton, Maryland, where the Chesapeake Bay took off in every direction but west. My sad fiddle and I walked into a cluster of houses and outbuildings where a back stair led to Melton’s second-floor shop.
Retired in name only, Thomas Melton has done well enough in construction to feed his hobby/business/obsession with violins. He also makes hand-turned wooden bowls, waterfowl decoys, and goes rockfish fishing in the Bay--interests which were all reflected in the tools and artifacts covering every spare inch of his shop.
It seemed that the Perrins guys hadn’t thought to clean out the 150+ years of rosin, oil, and peg dope which were gunking the insides of my peg holes. Melton did it, then rummaged through a drawer which must have represented a 200 year history of fiddle pegs, before finding me an E peg fat enough for my fiddle’s old holes. He noted that my chin rest was not only higher than average, but seemed to do me no good at all based on my hold, and traded me for something more suitable. I bought a shoulder rest that he had on hand, having never much liked my old standard-issue music student model, and he got me put back together and, at least for the moment, in tune.
He does it for fun, not money, which was evidenced by his charging me 25 bucks for some careful, meticulous work, and even then instructing that I should tell him if that was too much. It wasn’t. He has numerous music teachers who are both friends and customers to whom he’ll donate half and three-quarter-sized violins he’s acquired and patched up, when they have eager but needy pupils. I’m glad I met him.
When life takes off in a direction that runs contrary to assumptions you’ve held for years, it can take a really long time to adjust. Especially if you’ve had a shaky sense of self-definition all along.
Oh, and here's a problem with shaky senses of self-definition: I just picked up a Title Nine catalog. I basically like Title Nine stuff even though I don't need rock-climbing clothes. The catalog is sprinkled with vignettes featuring real-people models engaged in active pursuits while spiffily clad in Title Nine items.
This is typical of the profiles they print under the pics: "Juliska weaves prairie grasses into her own line of sleepwear while teaching Mandarin Chinese to her two toddlers. She enjoys striving for her personal best in 20K marathons, and leads yoga classes for the NYPD in her spare time." Sometimes I want to look at the clothes, and sometimes I want to take a bottle-opener to Juliska's stylin' spandex britches.
I guess I could be a Title Nine model. I would wear whatever they told me to, and the caption would read thusly: "Emily sucks dog fur out of corners while trying to convince her kids that she really didn't fix anything for dinner. She can dodge a teenage verbal zinger clocked at 60mph while hurdling a chopsaw. Her personal motto is 'get your own spoon.'"In the true spirit of a blog, here are a few themeless rambles.
Fred-fred and I took a very nice walk today. Odd, that since I live two blocks from Severn School, I’ve never seen the new academic buildings from closer than across the football field. Now, the fact that I don’t send my kids to the local private prep school is a matter of philosophy, economics, and handy public schools which are, all in all, not bad.
Still, I’ve continued to think about it as if it were the same venerable institution with creaky, ivy covered buildings. It’s not. Wow. Someone’s Harvard endowment contribution must’ve taken a wrong turn in New Jersey and ended up funding a couple academic buildings worthy of Bill Gates. The buildings are huge, the lounges are college caliber, the lunch room is enormous. And get this--there’s a pendulum in the entry way. That’s right. A big one too. Swinging from a ceiling 3 stories up. Severn School thinks its the Smithsonian now.
And then I noticed this plaque on one of the brick columned colonnades connecting an old building to the mega-new one. A plaque stating that the colonnade was a gift of--people I know. People whose kid Gabe used to go to school with at Summit. A kid whom he still considers a friend despite the fact that his attempts to interest this kid in a get-together over the past couple years have not panned out. Which I’m ok with since every time I used to have to wait at the electronic community gate to transport him to their chateau I was gripped by an unattractive surge of counter-snobbery and wanted to say to the speaker-box “No thank you--I’d best send Gabe up to entertain your child while I wait here so as not to bring cooties into the neighborhood.”
The truth is, they’ve never behaved snobbily toward me, nor has anyone else who sends kids to prep school--I must just get some kind of weird kick from playing inadequacy mind games.
I believe that I want a small, in-town house with at most a postage stamp of a yard. Lawns are for gardening hobbyists or the commited suburbanite. I am neither.
In fact, I’m experiencing a huge resistance to the suburban life. It’s for other people. People who like external socializing. People for whom that’s easy. People who want to be hostesses, or whose needs are so met by their nuclear family unit that they don’t need to see and hear passersby just to know they’re not alone.
Olde Severna Park kind of fools me. I can walk up Riggs Avenue or Avondale Circle and almost pretend that if I turned around and went the other way that there would be a welcome busyness, the hum of commerce, and people to see in action. Then, my street could be the place of quiet escape..
I think suburbs are designed to isolate people. I’ve also read that introverts only make up 15% of the human population, which means that, for many or most other people this isolation is not troublesome--they will find a way to connect because they are natural connectors..
But I’m not. So I want to run away and join the town.
I put on my usual chipper morning face.
The bearded cowboy on the tv says “Yew don’t recall ‘im? Or yew don’t wanna recall ‘im?”
Jeff has been up since whenever, as he does not have a circadian rhythm.
“What you watching?” I say. I’m friendly. It’s supposed to show.
“Um, actually it’s not a movie, it’s Gunsmoke,” says Jeff.
I didn’t ask if it was a movie.
“Can you tell I’m trying to be extra friendly to help you feel good?” I ask. In a friendly way.
“Oh,” says Jeff. “Ok.” He shuffles upstairs for today’s 6:15 am bedtime. Gunsmoke was evidently not all that compelling.
Becca and Olivia have actually woken to their alarms. Olivia makes only one reference to wanting to punch somebody, so I take her stress level to be low today. Becca breezes through, makes some toast and jam, has it all together. Her hair is floofed. She is Marilyn among the Munsters, with one exception: Sometimes she gets embarrassed by us.
Gabe, at my urging, staggers into the shower for a nap. After I bang on the door 5 or 6 times and say “wash your hair,” he stumbles out and scarfs some Honey Bunches of Oats. Then he squishes the dog into the corner of the couch. He is trying to occupy the same cubic footage as the dog. He is trying to defy the laws of physics and the dog knows it.
“I had an out of body experience in math yesterday,” says Gabe. Yesterday was the first day of school. It’s his last year in this school. Next year--high school. Of some sort. I’m not sure I want to be hearing about out of body experiences in math class.
“Do you think you could save out of body experiences for lunch or recess?” I ask. I’m silly. He tells me, and I already knew this, that you can’t control out of body experiences.
Two of Rachel’s friends from St. Mary’s stopped by here with her briefly yesterday, after a day in Annapolis. I don’t know why this kind of situation can make me feel so ill at ease--it’s related somehow to my domestic misfit syndrome.
One of the nice young ladies said “you have a lovely home.” Luckily, I knew the correct response and replied “thanks,” even though I was thinking something like this: Why would you say that to me? Do I look like the kind of person who would have a lovely home? Do I in any way resemble Martha Stewart? Is it not obvious that my rightful habitat would be a barn?
It’s probably good that I didn’t say those things. It might have confused them. They, after all, were following the script, and I was off on a wild tangential head trip. And I think I displayed ample awkwardness as the 3 of them (2 friends + Rachel) sat at the kitchen counter munching tortilla chips and hummus while I sauteed chard, Olivia made mac and cheese, Jeff pulled a Flatbread pizza out of the freezer, while I apologized for the fact that “we don’t really fix dinner here--we just kind of randomly eat stuff.
Gadzooks. Any reasonable mom of teens would be able to offer something on the spot. I think it didn’t matter. I think they’d eaten and snacked in town and weren’t really hankering for a mom-figure to lay out a repast.
And then they got ready to leave. The other nice young lady made a point of sticking her head in the kitchen to say “Thanks for having us.” I was thinking: Having you? I didn’t even do anything. I didn’t even get you a drink. (Luckily Rachel did!) You must have a real professional mother at your house who taught you what to say...which means--yikes! You know a bogus imposter when you see one! But I didn’t say that. I think I said something like “sure.”
There are people in my life.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Sometimes I would have the people be another way. Or at least I think I would. Maybe.
Here’s one: This guy can annoy. I would say that he does it without half trying but I think he often does try, and more than half. Probably 3/4 or better. You cannot tell him anything. You are wrong, I’ll just let you in on that right off the bat. If you are silly, you can try to tell him that he probably can’t build a robot out of random parts he’s extracted from what used to be a functional clock radio and a broken telephone. You can try to tell him that it would take years of studying before he’d even know where to start, but, as I’ve already informed you--you’re wrong. At the moment I’m trying to get this guy to write a good paragraph on the conflicts found in the storyline of The Golden Compass. He is on refreshing break number 10.
(edited out a part here. Just because. There are things you should say, and things maybe you shouldn't say. ) I had a little online tarot reading recently, that spoke to [the edited out thing] with unexpected clarity. A great deal more clarity than my memory, in fact, but it said something like this:
I had 10 jars, all full. I’m not sure what they were full of but it was something good--it was the essence of goodness. Several spilled. Dumped. Gone. I have maybe five or six left. The reading went on to advise that I make the most of the remaining jars as opposed to going all cranky about how I used to have 10.
Anyway, if I want to personally extend the metaphor, I’d say that I have quite a few other types of vessels as well, in addition to those jars. I’ve got some amphoras, several pitchers, a number of coffee cups, and quite a bit of tupperware as well. All the more reason not to make life a shrine to the spilled jars.
So, I said I would have people be another way. But then I’d have to be able to suggest an alternate storyline. Which means it would be boring, and most likely trite. Which is another subject.
(next: My damnable need to have a meaningful life, as defined by my personal, inadequate comprehension of meaningfulness.)
With a pet-load of 4 cats and a dog, and a houseful of bipeds who haven’t evolved too far from our Cro-Magnon days, I’ve seriously resisted all new pet entreaties.
But there wasn’t much I could do when the college freshman came home for the summer with two goldfish in a tupperware tank...refugees from the St. Mary’s bio lab where their alternate destiny was to serve as hors d’oeuvres for the big fish.
Rachel calls them Barbie and Tip. I prefer to think of them as Audrey and Audrey II. It’s not that they actually have audible voices, but their attitude, every time I walk into the room screams “FEED ME!” (This is not supposed to be my problem, but Rachel has approximately 3012 friends, all of whom must be visited during the next 2 months, so I’ve inherited fish feeding detail as often as I might have guessed it would happen.)
Barbie, (or Audrey,) is actually fortunate to be around to scarf the yummy goldfish flakes at all, seeing as how she decided, on day two of her residency here, to take a swan dive out of the tupperware. She owes her life to Freddi the dog, whose barking and sniffing alerted Olivia to the orange and seemingly lifeless body on the floor. I picked her up in tissue, in a quandary as to what to do next with Rachel still asleep, when the fish wiggled and I hastily redeposited her in the water.
Since then we’ve acquired a small tank with a safety lid, and a couple types of fish antibiotics to treat the black splotch disease which indubitably the little piscean’s near death experience made her more susceptible too.
But all’s cool now, if only I can resist those little sucky mouths making o’s at me through the tank walls every time I go in the room.
