One day at a time (that's the only way there is, right?)

It hasn't been a promising week on the Alzheimer's front. We are going to take the garbage and recycling out, I say with my therapeutic expression of friendly invitation. Jeff jumps up. He is ready to roll. Do you want to get the blue bin out of the closet? I ask.

The blue bin is a small plastic waste can into which we cram all recyclable paper until such time as it goes outside to the big yellow bin. We empty it every Sunday, for Monday morning pick-up. On some days which aren't Sunday, Jeff just takes it out and dumps it for something to do. But today he is bewildered by both the term "blue bin," and the concept "closet." He hovers near me as I remove the full plastic garbage bag from the large trash container in the kitchen, and tie the ends closed. Then I walk him over to the closet and point to the blue bin. Why don't you grab that?

Outside, he follows me to the road, spies the partially full yellow bin (which I have already pulled out,) and makes ready to drag it back to the house. No, it's full, I say. They're going to pick it up tomorrow.

Later that night, going to the Hippodrome Theater where we will see Stomp with my mom, Gabe, and Gabe's friend Matt, Jeff cannot find the door of the car, cannot fasten his seat belt, forgets how to hand the lady at the door his ticket 30 seconds after I place it in his hand, then tries to walk through a glass door, instead of the open one next to it. I am nearby to hand over the ticket myself, then steer him through the doorway.

Today proves little better. We are labeling and stamping concert association postcards with a handful of volunteers at Mom's dining room table. I know Jeff cannot put the labels on in the proper place, nor the stamps. I have him peel off then hand me stamps. It's not a speedy way to get things done, but we move along, and when he hands me bits of the plain white sticky paper framing the sheet of stamps, instead of a stamp, I simply stick it to a sheet of scrap paper and wait for the next one.

Nowadays I open his sandwich wrapper at Whole Foods, spread it out, and orient the sandwich halves for easy grabbing. I open the chips and aim the bag opening toward him. I unfold a napkin for maximum absorbent surface exposure. It's a good lunch. Jeff praises his "Santa Fe Sunrise" sandwich, and I enjoy my salad bar stuff.

I confer with my mom by phone. Yes, she has noticed a decline. She uses the word "precipitous," but I don't think it quite is. She notes that my grandmother, in her declining years with Alzheimer's, lost functions gradually. First the function would blink on and off for a while, like a dashboard light with bad wiring. Later, it completely conked out.

Jeff sits on the couch, and I sit in the rocker and read an entire chapter of Bill Bryson's The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid until I am about out of voice. Jeff likes it. He doesn't get every single nuance, but the chapter is about Americans' fears and fascinations in the 50's--nuclear detonations, Communism, teenagers--and he remembers the time well, as he is only a very few years older than the writer. We note that somewhat-crazy politicians are nothing new.

In between the day's dynamic adventures I have answered review questions in Japanese, washed laundry, and read commentary from both sides on today's big news--the health care overhaul has passed Congress--making a pleased comment or two myself, while being careful to keep my tone non-incendiary. The rancor bewilders me. In a two-party system sometimes it will go this way, sometimes that. The world as we know it is no more likely to end than it was last week. Jeff notes that our very conservative friend Bill is doubtless on a rant of epic proportion today. Jeff isn't bad at reasonable observations when he's sitting still.

It is 7:30 pm. I have nothing left to provide in the way of entertainment, so Jeff goes to bed. I am going to watch "Property Virgins," an HGTV program about first-time home buyers. I don't know why I like "Property Virgins"...maybe Sandra Rinomato's overbearing personality makes me feel sensibly mild-mannered. Or there's just nothing else on, and I like the sound of human voices sometimes, even if it's only pseudo-company.

dinged cars, wrinkled clothes...yes, we're rumpled.

I pulled a wadded-up pair of L.L.Bean khakis out of the small t-shirt drawer on Jeff's side of the closet. There was a balled handkerchief in the pocket, and a braided belt still in the loops.

"Aha..." I said. So this is where last night's outfit, worn to the neighbors' 50th anniversary party, ended up. Two days ago I had pulled more wadded trousers out of Jeff's sock drawer. Today I got tired of the blue Eddie Bauer flannel-lined broadcloth shirt which has served as his default overshirt for roughly 2 weeks. "Wear this chambray," I said, handing him something suitably lighter for the changing weather. He put on his clean clothes. When he met me outside for a dog-walk, 15 minutes later, he'd added the other ubiquitous flannel-lined shirt--the army green one. It must mysteriously disappear into the laundry of no-return, I noted to myself. At least until Fall.

Later today, I did driving practice with Gabe. Our first in roughly a year and a half. Gabe drives like someone who has never driven before, and I fear it will continue to be so well into his paid sessions with the professional instructor, which start next week during his Spring break. We both maintained our decent humors, more or less, as we traversed (more of less) the byways of several neighborhoods near ours, misgauging turn radii and becoming friendly with hedges. It remains clear that I haven't the temperament to teach him myself, any more than he has the temperament to tolerate me as co-pilot. He says he finds the professional guys less annoying. I hope that under their tutelage he'll progress faster, and that they'll feel no need to scold me for our lack of practice since '08.

Now it's time for me to dig out Jeff's dress-up clothes, hoping I didn't fail to note their last location. With luck, I caught his suit before it hit the floor last time (whenever that was,) and I will not find it smashed into a wrinkled rag in a drawer full of pencils and loose change. Tonight we will attend a fundraising dinner event for the Community Center down the street, and it will be an excellent time to catch up with my sister, whom I never see, as she is usually either teaching school or ferrying small children to scouting events, while I am helping some people put their underwear on properly, and encouraging others to remove 15 dirty glasses from the computer desk, or not drive into stop signs. As a help, there will be several useful hands in our group, to take turns towing Jeff back into position when he gets stuck behind chairs or stares relentlessly at someone who does not wish to converse with him.

But there will be food, and there will be wine, and I will be happy.

many mouthfuls

Most likely I'll have to drive to Baltimore and pick Gabe up after school tomorrow. There is little chance that his usual carpool will push off promptly enough for me to make it to the orthodontist by 4:30 pm if I wait and meet him at the rendezvous point.

This is, roughly, the last orthodontic appointment I'll be taking a kid to ever. And that was a lot of teeth, a lot of wire, and a whole Jaws-sized mouthful of money, all told. (Nor have I quite seen the end of it, as Gabe will require--not long down the road--a permanent installation to replace the absent tooth which is currently supplied by means of a retainer appendage.)

What else am I almost done doing? Quite a few things, when I stop and think about it. In just under three months, I will have assembled my last school lunch. (I can't say this will break any hearts, as I have a long and entrenched history of uninspired lunch-packing.) But that's 18 years of lunch duty...and upwards of 40 if you measure in kid-years.

This summer, I will tote Gabe to his last drum lesson. I will (I hope) assist in the acquisition of the fourth and final driver's license. And I will be entirely through with waking up at 5:15 a.m. on a normal morning, so as to allow time to feed the cats and dog, make the coffee, and get Gabe up in time for carpool.

It's a little difficult to imagine life beyond a generation of regularly scheduled obligations. And no question many of the gaps will be quickly filled by irregular and unscheduled crises. But I think I'm ready. One of the things I will do is attempt to memorize the last name of my handyman, which is, by the way, Maarschalkerweerd.

Mac 'n Tosh

My MacBook Pro is a 15 incher. It's a fine figure of engineering, and a reliable workhorse. It is also seventh in a long lineage of Macs, following (starting in 1988) a Mac SE, a Mac Performa (which had, as I recall, the coolest introductory video,) a hot pink iMac (which developed a certain finickiness with regard to rejecting disks on demand,) a bright orange "toilet seat" iBook laptop (my very first "all mine" computer,) a pristinely white and clunky eMac (only recently donated to a shelter,) a small white, almost square, iBook, and a larger silver MacBook Pro (only recently donated to a daughter.)

Despite my obvious default inclination, I've maintained a PC desktop in the computer room, since the girls were in high school, for the purposes of (at the time) easily opening downloadable physics class homework. The Gateway is, at present, the seat of Gabe's domain, when he's not battling zomboids and demonoids on the PS3. Hence, as fanfic and anime sites are hotbeds of slippery worms and trojans, I have become passably competent at analysing and remedying problems that occur on PCs and not Macs.

So it was with only slight trepidation that I stepped outside my normal behavioral patterns and recently purchased a Toshiba netbook. Here is why I did: A 15" MacBook does not comfortably fit inside carry on baggage, nor does it tuck into a convenient green totebag. Additionally, I would have trouble philosophically accepting its loss due to accident or theft. Furthermore, it is unsatisfactory to type and blog on an iPhone, beyond brief texts. The final straw is that I don't like the look of the new iPad for typing, and I decidedly do not want to join the guinea pig generation of the things. So, I bought a Toshiba netbook.

It was a little weird for me--an avowed Mac enthusiast--to do so. I had to talk myself into looking at it as if I were conversant in two languages. And I had to, as a matter of course, install antivirus software, Avira in this case. And I had to laugh at my silliness. Because it seemingly is a fine little beast--easy to port, and perfectly functional. Not a Mac, 'tis true, but quite ok as far as I can tell.

So, once we commence moving around the country (for example--we will deliver Gabe to Connecticut in August, with an extended side trip to include an inn, and Mark Twain's house,) I will (gently) drop the Tosh in my carry-along and leave the Mac safely on my desk. Because it will be at that point that I can (finally!) blog about something other than a) angst, b) home maintenance, c) food shopping, and c) computers.

Give me a P!....J! oops.

I'm brainstorming.

Actually, I'm not sure whether one brain can storm all by itself, so it may be that I'm merely brainsqualling, or just brainclouding. (Wait...braincloud...that's what the bogus doc told Tom Hanks he had in Joe Versus the Volcano to falsely convince him he was terminal. Well, whatever...I'm certain, actually, that I do have braincloud, and I'm equally certain that it's not terminal.)

This is the nature of my squall: (It was more of a revelation preceding rapt consideration...) I absolutely will not need a 6 bedroom house in a very few years. Really, I won't. I don't think anyone will come back for any significant amount of time, with the possible exception of Gabe, who may try to, whereupon he will discover that the chair in the computer room has been rigged with a Batmobile-like spring device which will eject him through a special Gabe-shaped cut-out in the roof. I'm going to have to see if Dutch the handyman can work on that.

But, honest-to-goodness, I cannot picture what I'd want to do instead, because--for some reason--my vision is apparently incapable of extending that far. I'm pretty sure that this house--this rather wonderful, handcrafted, visionary, but utterly quirky house--is much too much for two people with one and a half brains. But what to run away to? And would I simply be running away from a loneliness that's going to follow me anyway? Seems entirely possible.

I cannot move to one of the places I would go if this silly life scenario had played out 2 or 3 decades down the road, when a choice to be surrounded by other seniors and the usual senior amenities (including conveniently proximate nursing care) might be sensible and appealing. Nor is it enough to stay here, reminding myself that my mother and sister are 2 and 3 miles down the road--because we have our separate lives and responsibilities and only intersect when it's deliberate. This is a largish house, on 1/3 acre, on a pleasant street where you only see your neighbors in passing, while walking the dog. I don't think this is how humans were designed to live. At least not alone.

I am somewhat enthralled by the notion of co-housing--planned neighborhoods, where families or individuals have their own smallish homes, but carry out many functions in a central structure, and enjoy community meals, a group garden, central greens. I guess it could be awful. It depends. It could be magnificent.

Trouble is, I'm far too impatient, and anxious to answer a question that doesn't yet require an answer. Lots can happen. Life may flop its own idea of a next step down in front of me like a gauntlet that I haven't imagined. And I am intrigued by that possibility.

INFJ. That's me, as measured by Myers-Briggs. I think, though, that I will just take that J and exchange it for the P, if you don't mind. I'm done with the J. You can have it. It wants everything to be mapped out and settled, and things are almost never mapped out and settled. Silly old J. Maybe it would like a glass of Pinot.

No shortage of bamboo, however

Between our backyard and the neighbors' behind us (there are two, as our lot backs up to a midline,) is a 15 foot County right-of-way. The County never has and, as far as I can imagine, never will access this no man's land. They certainly by no means maintain it in any way and, as such, it has become--over time--a sort of default place to throw the old Christmas trees, yard waste, and sawdust-based kitty litter. Our property line was more or less marked, as of almost 20 years ago, by a row of Leyland cypresses which we planted as wee little things of roughly 3 feet tall. Over the ensuing decades the ones which got sun grew tall and windblown. The ones which didn't were relatively stunted, and brown at the bottom. Many have succumbed to winter, and more than ever to the snows of 2010.

When we felt a need to fence in our dog Freddi, the only option was within the cypress-line, and the fence--as it now stands--shortens an already shallow back yard. Hence, as the only cypresses remaining are the healthy batch on our southwest border, we'll be having the sticks and fallen evergreens hauled, and then resurvey for a new fence. The dog will get an expanded sniff and poo zone, and the back view will seem a good deal less stunted than it does now. Without any cypresses, there's a clear vista into the yard of the Two Yapping Spaniels, but since the trees hardly muffled the noise...what difference?

Yes, this is instead of buying furniture for the back patio. But, perhaps it will be a more inspirational place to stand.

RDA of distraction? Check.

The first Fresh Market I ever visited was in Greensboro, North Carolina. We had checked out of the Hyatt Place after breakfast, but were early for the Guilford College open house, and there it was--in a snazzy new bells & whistles shopping center--The Fresh Market. So we stopped. As I recall we purchased a package of dried mangoes and a 6-pack of Cheerwine (Gabe's choice--I do not enjoy its cherry cough syrup allure.)

Gabe declared it to be the finest grocery store he'd ever experienced...nay, one he could verily work for, and we've been awaiting the arrival of the new one which, as of last Wednesday now occupies the space vacated by Whole Foods when it transitioned from marvelous to mind-bogglingly stellar.

Jeff and I visited Thursday, as part of our "lunch and a field trip" daily routine. As often happens with new stores, the staff--for that week--are the most scurryingly helpful humans on the face of the planet. It was the first time since I was four years old that someone (not related to me) has carted my purchases out to the car. (No, I've forgotten. They did that at Whole Foods, same location, first week or so!)

We will return. Especially since we enjoy the Lebanese Taverna, three doors down, for lunch. And I will assuredly buy a 4-pack of cupcakes. (Unless I buy an apple pie.) I will probably select a few apples, tangerines, and green things. But they will not be the green things from the broad central region of the store, which is overflowing with bins of fancy candies of all stripes, and snack mixes containing everything from pumpkin seeds to candied kumquat.

The Fresh Market is not likely to be my venue for the most serious of grocery shopping, but when you're as tickled as we are every time you get a tiny, free cup of coffee, then shopping for minneolas is at least as good as Disney. Probably better, since you would be hard-pressed to get coffee at the latter for under three bucks.

liniment required.

I can feel my brain.

Just a few seconds ago, for example, I had a website in mind. I was going to go to it next, but got distracted by a bit of flash-happy visual clutter and--clink--that website rolled right off my cerebral desk and into a dusty corner amongst a couple of neurons that most likely concern themselves with whether Gabe has any socks left that he hasn’t picked holes in.

I’m pretty sure I’ll find it later. (and discover it was about as valuable as a gum-ball machine trinket.) But the notable point is that I felt it go clink, just as I feel something akin to lactic acid build-up after a 5 page Japanese chapter test.

Ever faced a treadmill, or a 3-mile run, and had your cranky, groggy muscles say you’re kidding, right?, even if they go on to acquiesce? That’s exactly the way my brain feels--even three semesters in--every time it’s faced with a page of text in hiragana and kanji, as opposed to nice “normal” romaji. (this is pretty much typed in romaji, btw.) It’s like you go to open the receptors of your brain and find them packed in cotton batting, with a muffled voice in the back weakly protesting that it’s stuck.

So far I usually manage to unstick it. And I wonder whether--if your brain is slowly getting gunked up by beta amyloid--can you feel it? You can’t unstick it, like I can, and this soothes my paranoia a bit.

Life? Yeah.

Tonight, we finished The Lost Continent: Travels in Small Town America by Bill Bryson. Tomorrow we will start The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid: a Memoir, by the same. I’ve read it before. Actually, I’ve read them all before, and I can’t quite remember which, over the past 2-3 years, I’ve already read to Jeff. But it doesn’t matter, because I enjoy them, and he does too.

Today I had the fleeting thought that I could switch over to rereading the Harry Potter Chronicles, or Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy--either of which (set) I’d happily give a third go to. But here’s why Bryson will win out: While they’re sequential, (Lost Continent narrates his trip across America, and Thunderbolt Kid describes his childhood in Des Moines, Iowa,) neither requires retention of details. I’m certain we would not retain the plot throughout a novel, but with Bill Bryson it doesn’t matter. Each chapter is a vignette in and of itself.

In a sense, our lives are very much like the lives of our cats. The most interesting and pressing topics are what will we eat?, is it nap time?, should we go outside?...but we add thrills, including How much fun can we have buying groceries?

I’m not sure what to make of the life of an Alzheimer companion. Sometimes I feel like a caged bear, and wish for anything that I could have a job--even at a coffee shop--because then I’d make a couple bucks, and really appreciate my free time. Maybe. Other times I notice how relatively pleasant and gentle the pace is, and know plenty of folks who’d happily live at this speed for a breather. And sometimes I’m mentally generating a list of possible ways to have someone to talk to who can follow a conversation. But I guess it’s a life. So I don’t need to get one.

Super freaky

Pick that up later, I say. Pick it up when we’re done. But scrupulosity is one of the interesting features of Jeff’s changing brain, and if something from his fork takes a swan dive--as two bits of shaved carrot did today--he will root around under the table until he finds it.

Metro Silver Diner is one of our semi-regulars, because of its veg-friendly options and convenience to Target and Whole Foods Market. Its character is a quirky cross between retro 50s, and space-age (also retro 50s, I guess) Jetsons-style ingenuity. You survey the large back-lit menu boards, then enter your credit card and choices into a self-serve, touch-screen kiosk which has its own “do you want fries with that” tricks, such as splashing up a picture of a frosty milkshake and asking, with polite encouragement, whether you’d be interested. If you’re me, you hit the “no thanks” button. Then you grab a “number key” which resembles a plastic ankh, input your number on the screen, and find a table, whereupon you stick the skinny end of the key into an electronic box which sits where--in the old days--your personal jukebox control would have...and that way, the waitstaff knows where to bring your Summer Citrus salad and Veg Chili combo.

Jeff picked up the two bits of shaved carrot and placed them on the table. Five minutes later, when a chip of bacon escaped from his sandwich to the table and he began to toss the bits of everything back into his salad, I grabbed the carrot shavings with a napkin a split-second before he would have. You picked those up from the floor, I said. I did? replied Jeff. Yep, says I. Let me go get another napkin. (and pitch the floor food.)

Intervention is the norm. The irony is that the best way to minimize the appearance that I’m a control freak, is to be so very in control that I’ve headed off potential disasters before they require direct intervention. As a rule, I manage to do it with an even temperamental keel. But I’ve observed this: When frustration shortens my temper, and crankiness burbles out ahead of my action...it’s usually myself with whom I’m mad. Not that you’d know that. Cranky is cranky. No one needs it. But it comes when I should have intervened sooner, but didn’t.

Case: This morning. I’m chopping an apple. The dog is standing in the back yard issuing loud woofs. It’s 6:00 am. The neighbors don’t need this. I will get that dog, I say, in a minute. I know I should leave the apple and go get her now. But Jeff heads out the door. Maybe this is fine. Maybe I can let him do it. Maybe...he is not carrying her in the back door upside down in such an awkward way that one slight gravitational tug will have her hanging by her arthritic back-legs. I scurry over and rescue the dog. You can’t carry her like that! I scold. I should not scold. It’s not nice. But I know the truth is that I am scolding myself. I’m not frustrated with Jeff, I’m frustrated with me. My job is to prevent disasters before they’re born. Because, unlike with kids, there is no valuable learning experience for a person with AD. If the kid forgets to insert the filter basket and the coffee overflows all over the countertop...well, next time she probably won’t forget. If the AD person forgets to insert the filter basket and the coffee overflows...there is a mess, there is--for this moment--a sense of failure, and there is no learning.

So, yes, if you insist, I am a control freak. It’s the only good choice.

wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles...

ApplianceLand finally delivered and installed my new dishwasher today. Two dates scheduled and lost to snow back-log, but today it actually occurred. Oh, it better run like a freshly-tuned Jaguar. Without going anywhere, I mean.

So, after removing all the dog-bombs from the backyard with my little rake and pan combo (these can--due to the residual snow--be otherwise known as i.c.b.m.s,) I explored the new Kitchenaid dw. (p.s.--I cleaned up the doggie work as a courtesy to the tree removal crew who will be clearing out the fallen and dead leyland cypresses from the backyard within the next couple of days, barring substantially more snow.)

As for the dishwasher...well, for starters, I am not minding another block of stainless steel, as opposed to the cabinet front set that was taken out. Also, there is always the learning curve of establishing new loading habits when you find yourself facing an unfamiliar set of interior prongs and brackets.

Still, the process has not been without fun. In reading the user guide, for instance, I discovered that Star-K, whose business it is to certify appliances as kosher or not, contributed an entire half-page to the proper usage of my dishwasher on the Sabbath and/or holidays. (Well, not my dw, per se, as it is not owned by an orthodox Jewish household, but the model.) Apparently, the 2 drawers are sufficiently disinclined to commingle their contents that you may designate one dairy and one meat. But you must not, of course, run the thing on the Sabbath. You may load it if you like, but only being very careful not to accidentally touch the sensor panel at the front of the drawer, thus inadvertently turning on a function. Furthermore, you must (if you have previously engaged it) disengage the child safety feature, and change the setting on the low rinse-aid indicator light so that it doesn’t do the work of alerting you to low rinse-aid on days when it's not free to do so. So there.

Oy vey! I thought. At least I’m not worried about that set of rules. Conjugating adjectives in Japanese is quite complex enough. This did not prevent me, however, from dancing around in front of the dishwasher, a la Tevye, singing Traditioooooon! tradition!...(stomp!) di di di di (stomp!) di di di di (stomp!) di di di di...di di di di diiii!

Oh, and apparently Dutch--the handyman--is planning to do some work for me, despite the fact that he hasn’t called me back. He told my brother-in-law Gordon. Ok, whatever works. He’ll come over eventually, and I’ll have a leaky floor all ready for him.

arigatoo, for not noticing...

Joss Café & Sushi Bar might be my favorite restaurant. I am rarely so linear as to have favorite anythings, but Joss is certainly in the favored echelon. In fact, I recently gave it a 5/5 Yelp rating. (Yelp.com--log in, rate places, and see what other people think before you go.) I’m not sure about the 5/5. Nothing really deserves an unqualified 5. Joss, after all, is a bit cramped inside, and has the tiniest of entryways such that there’s absolutely no place to wait except out on the sidewalk if there’s not a table ready. But it’s cozy and charming, and the rustic French Provincial interior of the main dining area (from the days when the space housed La Crêpe Normande) translates pretty well into Japanese rustic, with the addition of a few samurai masks and a couple of Good Luck Kitties.

Still, I always feel like it’s pushing things a bit to assign 5s. I think part of the problem is, a 5 point scale just doesn’t allow for fine-tuning. Hence, I arbitrarily decided that if Joss--at the moment--is hovering at the top of my list, and the top of my list should be 5s, then Joss must be a 5. Or something. Scale subject to later adjustment, all rights reserved, etc.

Jeff and I ate lunch there yesterday. It was a more indulgent choice than our usual lunch, given that we usually order at a counter, choose a seat, and pay half as much. But I wanted a cupcake. And right across Main Street from Joss is “Nostalgia Cupcakes” where they sell...cupcakes. Honestly, I don’t know why they’re still in business. But the cupcakes are yummy.

I ate my usual teriyaki tofu and avocado salad, and drank a pot of oolong tea, while Jeff managed to keep his chopsticks right-side up and polish off a grilled salmon salad. Then I paid. You know how sometimes waitpeople will scribble “thanks, Betsi!” with a smily-face or something on the credit card receipt? Well, sometimes I’m inspired to write back, and yesterday I did, in Japanese, although I’m sure our waitress (whose name wasn’t Betsi, but was certainly something typically American) doesn’t read Japanese. So maybe she ignored what I wrote and never checked with one of the Japanese chefs for a translation. I can only hope. Because that way, no one will ever notice that I conjugated “oishii” wrong.

Here’s what I wrote: Gochisoosama. Oishii deshita! (Only it looked like this: ごちそうさま。おいしいでした！) Here’s what’s really dumb. This is exactly what I’ve been busily drilling myself on in semester 3 of Japanese. Conjugating adjectives. And I know perfectly well that oishii, being an “i” adjective, in past tense should be “oishikatta desu,” only--unfortunately--this did not dawn on me until I was halfway home.

Oh yes...here is a rough translation of what that means: “Thank you for the meal. It was delicious! I am a dumb American who cannot conjugate delicious!”

I do not score a 5/5. Not yesterday, anyway.

Bin there, done with that.

Lately, I’ve been buying my wine at Bin 201. Bin 201 sells only wine--no beer, no liquor--and they’re conveniently located just steps from Whole Foods Market. (Do I sound like a radio advertisement yet?) I do have an inclination that I should shop from the more local merchant--in our case, Dawson’s Liquors. Dawson’s is 3 stone throws from our house and carries an impressive collection of domestic and imported booze. But, you see, I think they hate me there.

It’s possible that my imagination is acting up, or that I’m simply neurotic, but I’m pretty sure I’ve earned--as far as the handful of men (plus the one short woman with heavy-framed spectacles and a permanent scowl) who run Dawson’s are concerned--some sort of uppity alpha she-wolf status.

It’s not something I do on purpose. In fact, I’m neither mean, uppity, rude, nor aggressive. But I do take Jeff almost everywhere I go. And I do guide him.

Jeff has an additional problem which complicates the others: He can only hear about half as well as most people. Here’s how this plays out in Dawson’s liquors: We walk in. A guy or two nods. I smile or say “hi.” Jeff stops, grins, and stands blocking the doorway and limiting another customer’s access to the checkout counter. I take his arm and say “this-a-way.” He forgets to look where I’m going the minute I let go, and heads down the Schnapps aisle. Then he realizes he’s lost me. I peek around an endcap (featuring the latest squeezings of some Hollywood director’s backyard vineyard,) and say, loudly enough for Jeff (and, incidentally, the rest of the store) to hear: “I’m right over here. Let me just grab a couple things.” I grab a couple things. Then it’s time to check out.

I place my two 750 ml selections on the counter, and indicate Jeff should do the same with his doublesize jug of Chardonnay. Then I pay, and the guy puts the bottles in a paper bag. Jeff holds out his hand for the bag. Sometimes I give it to him. Sometimes I say, “I’ve got it...can you get the door?” It all depends on the size and awkwardness of the paper bag. You see, there is a not-inconsequential chance that Jeff will a) grab the paper bag with one hand, effecting an immediate rip, or b) pick the bag up upside down. (The time this happened, remarkably only one bottle of the 4 that tumbled onto our brick walkway was impaired, and it was just a chink out of the screw cap. Which meant we opened that bottle right away.) But the take-home point is that people in public, such as the Dawson’s guys, observe a dynamic between Jeff and me that is a little strange if you don’t know he’s impaired. And I believe that they have concluded, despite the fact that I am neither mean nor belittling, that there’s something wrong with this picture. It’s just that they’ve guessed wrong about what the wrong thing is.

Once, I had to get Jeff to sign a state tax refund check, so that we could deposit it into a bank account that has only my name on it. So, he and I were standing on our side of the teller window, and I was trying to point to where, on the back of the check, he should endorse. As his pen tried several times to touch down in random places, I’d redirect him to the signature line. Task accomplished. Next day, my bro-in-law Gordon went to the bank. Same teller. She sees Gordon often, and mentioned that she saw his brother yesterday. Then she wondered aloud, whether his sister-in-law (aka me) is “a little overbearing.” (Gordon has dealt with this himself. He recalls helping Jeff buy girl scout cookies once by taking the money Jeff was struggling to count, and handing the right amount to the cookie mom, while she looked at him “like he had two heads.”) So Gordon chuckled and said, “Let me guess...he needed to sign in a specific place, and she was trying to help him?” Right. Gordon explained things to the teller, who has been very sweet to me ever since.

But nobody, apparently, has had an opportunity to explain things to the men who work at Dawson’s Liquors, and at least a couple of them really don’t like women who are in charge. Even reasonably pleasant ones. It’s a horrible vibe I get from them.

But not in Bin 201. At Bin 201, there are always women salespeople, they always deal directly with me, showing no sign that they find it wrong or odd that I’m taking charge, and they’re always very pleasant. It’s local enough.

kick in the pants

What I wish I had is a more outgoing personality type. I certainly like people--there's no question--but I like them on a very lateral basis. I must've been one of those little kids who played alongside other children, rather than with them.

All this is in recognition of my need to grapple with the #1 obstacle between me and a peaceful relationship with this house: Engage the Handyman!

So, yeah...I'll DO it! I'm going to do it. This week. I will call. (Why do I hate calling people?)

No doubt the water dripping through the kitchen ceiling this morning put the spark to my plug. (Incorrectly tiled bathroom floor--it's item #1 on page #2 of my "Maintenance Needs" notebook.)

Yeah, don't worry about it, I completely agree. The whining was getting on my nerves too.

it's not broken...it just has a great patina.

The behemoth icicle clusters, (one is pictured 3 post down,) finally fused into solid columns of ice, hooked to the roof at the top, and a frozen pool at the bottom. I’ve been worried all along, wondering if and when I should remove them before they release themselves. Afraid the support at the bottom they had now established would cause upward pressure against the soffit and the slate shingles, I decided to hack the leg off. It took a saw, a clean cut and a solid push to the stalagmite portion, but as we left to pick up Gabe from afternoon carpool, it appeared the remaining hanging portions would finally lose their grip. They did. And the one on the right took a couple half-shingles with it.

Clearly I made a wrong move, but there I was feeling newly overwhelmed by unfinished work, entropy, and an unfortunate dearth of resident handy people. I’m usually good at shutting up, and putting a happy face on it, but temporarily I wasn’t, and I lamented--out loud--that I didn’t know what we’d do, but I’d have to find a way out of maintenance that neither one of us is capable of.

Alzheimer’s is so weird. And so fraught with Catch-22s. If you haven’t done a lick of handy work in 4 years, and the last licks you attempted resulted in disastrous butcherings of door jambs and locksets, how odd that your brain still allows you to think you’re completely capable. I could do it said Jeff. A part of me still wants to apply reason rather than fib. You can’t, I said. You can’t, because the Alzheimer’s messed up the part of your brain that could do that work.

Of course he didn’t believe me. By corollary to the first conundrum, the AD-damaged brain will also not observe that walking outside in February without your coat, because you don’t like the point your wife attempted to make is not a particularly winning way to demonstrate that she’s mistaken about your level of function.

I am not kicking myself with much force. Faking that you’ve got it under control all the time is bound to fail. There will be holes in the fabric, and sometimes rips.

I have dispatched emails to two people who might know handymen-for-hire. And I’ve got a another phone number--someone my mom’s used--as another possibility. But maybe the trick is to save my money, and save the work until I can consider moving. Can I move Jeff? Will the house disintegrate around me? Am I whiny? (maybe don’t answer that.) I will think on it all, dream up a long term plan, and set the bellyaching dial to a very low hum.

a good house.

Unclear why I’ve been dancing on the hot coals of anxiety these last few days (especially given the cold weather,) but it’s been fun. I’m starting to seriously wonder whose bedroom I should co-opt for nights when the only thing that discharges the tension is pretending I’m on a “magic fingers” bed, delivering 200 nickels-worth of agitation, all at once.

I’m sure it’s a good policy--any time you’re in the midst of a “snow event” such as we’ve been experiencing this week here in the Mid-Atlantic--to postpone any hasty conclusions about your emotional balancing needs until, at the very least, the walking conditions have normalized. In the meantime, exercise indoors as possible, and do not eat too much of that strange orange cake you made yesterday--the one with the surprisingly light crumb, given that the layers are shaped like upside-down frisbees, and the overall morphology of the assembled and frosted confection resembles a squashed hat.

Well, I am afraid of the house, no question, and to a certain extent I always have been. It scared me at the outset when I knew Jeff was biting off more than he could chew--but we could talk about it, he had skills, and I could discharge into his buffering steadiness. It scared me when Jeff’s faltering brain left us with a half-realized work of architecture that I could neither fathom a way to complete, nor to escape from. Encouragement from Jeff’s siblings, and an arranged date with a contractor budged me from that rut, and I’m grateful. More was accomplished when we serendipitously stumbled upon our second team of renovators while walking the dog. Now it’s ok. It's the house I thought I could live in forever, when forever looked different from what it turned out to be. This house is about a partnership that no longer exists, and every detail reminds me. I can picture mustering enough resources to get the house in salable form, when needed...but why I’m so obsessed with getting out--seems like an impractical notion, doesn’t it?

Maintenance. I don’t want it. There’s too much. There’s a yard that needs clearing of overgrown, half-fallen cypresses and a fence in need of repair, and preferably, replacement. There’s a heat-system manifold, of boggling complexity in the basement, and a water heater so intricately linked to it that not just any HVAC man will want to take it on. There’s another HVAC unit in the laundry room--not in use. Never has been. The purpose for it disappeared with Jeff’s brain. As did the means to hang the arts & crafts light fixture which was destined for the family room ceiling, but is still living in about 8 boxes. There are wires sticking out of the wall, which would have operated it. Presently they’re capped with plastic wire nuts--a fetching color accent of orange and yellow against the white wall. The garage is partially framed in 2x4s which are now wobbly for lack of completing members. A bathroom wants tile repair and shelves where a platform of plywood still awaits.* I won’t go on. It’s boring.

Yes, I do get hung up on this stuff, and my imagination blooms with new things which could go wrong. My official stance, of course, (official being what I say to Jeff) is: “Everything’s fine here. There’s not really anything we need to do!” I say it enthusiastically, and I’m a great liar. Especially to a person who can’t read auxiliary facial give-aways. He would just fret, (albeit merely until it occurred to him to try to make coffee,) or state, forthrightly: “I can fix that!”

Then, like a moony teenager, I log onto FranklyMLS.com and ogle condominiums in Annapolis. It concerns me a bit that all the women in my ancestry named Emily ended up hermits in dark apartments. But I don’t mean to be a hermit. Or be in the dark. Or hide in my condo. So, while I hope I’m not destined for the Emily curse, I do think I am suffering a constitutional crisis where house ownership is concerned.

*(none of the remaining work is for my brother-in-law Fred, who has plenty to do at home.)

when not in use...

Gabe and I like the bathroom door to be left open when not in use. Allows for air circulation, and a fresher bathroom experience when it’s your turn.

Jeff shuts the door when he leaves. Every time. It has not always been thus, but has become--in the past couple years--a predictable habit. We see it shut, and push it open.

”Hey, Dad,” says Gabe, as Jeff exits the downstairs bathroom (which, in general, is the only one Gabe concerns himself with.) “Look. Look at this...see the door? Leave the door open.”

As for me, I have given up on two things: Asking Jeff to leave the door open, and reminding Gabe that his efforts will be to absolutely no avail. He knows better, but he keeps trying. “Hey. Dad. Leave the door open,” says Gabe. Jeff replies, “Oh, you like it open? Ok. I’ll remember that from now on.” Then he very dutifully pulls it shut behind him.

I’ll push it open next time I go down the hall. This is about as important as whether you prefer your bathroom tissue to hang toward the front, or toward the back. As in, it’s not important. (hint: front.)

Not quite ready for Hoth, but closer.

Today we ventured out, through the unplowed fluff and slush, because Jeff suggested--for the second day in a row--that we “go somewhere warm and dry and get some food.” Last night I dispelled the notion by pointing out that we were under full-blown snowfall, no plows would attempt our street until morning, and I doubted whether many local eateries were expecting customers. When he brought it up again this morning, I was more receptive--not because we didn’t have food, warmth, and dryness at home (we did,) but because I figured he must be missing his regular lunches out, and besides, I’d dispatched the final 2 inches in the driveway this morning.

So we rallied Gabe who--remarkably--had showered already, and navigated the messiness to Garry’s Grill, a local hash house. After a scintillating lunchtime description of Gabe’s various zombie-based dreams, we’ve returned to a house under full sun, with icicles melting in drips all around. Except for the ones which have fallen off altogether, such as these which apparently crashed to the ground while we were at lunch.

As of this extraordinary winter, I’m a full-on advocate for serious snow boots, like this excellent North Face pair which I acquired, with fortuitous timing, just before the pre-Christmas onslaught when the first 18” of the season hit us. The right gear, that’s all it takes for me to embrace my father’s haplogroup I, Nordic Y chromosome.

being where you are

These silly record snowfalls bollix daily tasks at every turn. You don’t think about it until you take an otherwise-well-rehearsed step and--bam--there’s another one. Well, to be completely honest, emptying the cat box should be quite a bit more well-rehearsed than it actually is, but yesterday it smelled essential. Unfortunately this meant plodding across crusted-over 2+ foot drifts in the back yard, until I could reach the composting zone over the back fence.

I have great snow boots. But I wasn’t wearing them. So, for the next 20 minutes mini snowballs tumbled from the inside of my jeans into my wool slippers as I puttered about the kitchen wondering whether to read a book or stare out the window.

Now it’s the garbage cans filling, and the recyclables collecting on the kitchen counter, as I’ve completely run out of space in the indoor bin. So, out I’ll go, crunching through the drifts the whole way, to yellow and green bins which will have to be shaken loose from the snow they’re 2/3 wedged into.

Yes, generally we manage these things around here, with a smile and the aplomb that goes with a novel type of mental stimulation coupled with the assumption that it will all end soon.

A broken fence, a trickle of water through the basement foundation, and two days without tv or internet, plus the relatively healthy (for most) upper-body workout of a driveway in need of shoveling have nothing on an overburdened tent camp on Hispaniola. In another life, in another dimension, I would be aboard the hospital ship USNS Comfort, currently floating off the coast of Haiti; part of a medical and support staff serving as they might. Sometimes I wonder about a life full of pedestrian game moves, such that (at the moment) my greatest concern is whether I’ll be capable of single-handedly patching the back fence where the snow-burdened Leyland cypress fell over on it.

1 dishwasher, hold the scary logo.

I will try to see my dysfunctional Fisher-Paykel dishdrawers as a charming, but ultimately disappointing, object lesson in why we avoid early-issue technology. Assuming this strategy succeeds, I will manage not to buy an iPad until they’ve discovered the worst kinks, and released a second generation.

However, this plan is of no help whatsoever to my dishes which, at the moment, are being sloshed with steamy water, but not washed in particular. Because, indeed, there were kinks aplenty in the guts and electronics of our prototype double-decker dishwasher. And now, about 5 years into service (and about 8 years after purchase...the kitchen took us a while...) it has this one advantage over letting the dog do the dishes: You can close the drawers and make them disappear.

So, on Thursday, we went to ApplianceLand. To be completely forthcoming, the name of the business is “ApplianceLand, etc.” First let me say that I have always failed to understand why businesses append words such as “city,” “land,” or “world,” to the name of the commodity they’re peddling in order to construct a name. I’d rather they just call it “Filbert’s Appliances.” (Or, if not Filbert, then whatever name is appropriate.) Because an ugly former bank building, with reflective turquoise-mirror windows, at the corner of Route 2 and West Street, is most certainly not a land. I can get over it, because they’ve been reasonable merchants to deal with, but I’m still nagged, just slightly, by the second appendage--that is, “etc.”

ApplianceLand, etc? What does this mean? That they also retain the riparian and mineral rights to this land, and possibly the airspace as well? Important, no doubt, however small and bounded by traffic the land is. (Maybe they should have called it “Appliance Duchy,” or “Appliance Principality.”) At any rate, stupid name or not, I will be completely happy with them when they deliver my new dishwasher, and get it properly installed, in a week. Oh...unless it’s delivered by the mascot:

If I open the door next Saturday, and something that looks like this slithers in, I’m going to be seriously wigged. I’m not exactly sure what this is. As near as I can tell, it is a fiendish female genie wearing a crustacean gown and a Jackie-O pillbox hat, who is gesturing for you to come close enough that she can push you down the garbage disposal. I did not see her in the showroom on Thursday, but the thought of her popping out might make me wary of opening the ovens or fridges on display.

Well, demonic mascots notwithstanding, I’ll be glad to have a functioning dishwasher.

time for adjustment

Today we went in search of a watch. Jeff has had many watches over the years, and the most recent--a rugged but basic Timex, with white face and black hands--was selected with visual simplicity in mind. For several months now, he’ll catch sight of the watch counter as we make our way through stores, and say “Hey...I need a watch.”

"Is there something wrong with your watch?” I reply, realizing he has no idea we’ve had this conversation five or six times. “It’s just...” he says, looking at it. “It’s just...I just want a basic watch.”

I don’t know why I’m so slow, but I finally connected the dots after the third time I saw him walk over to the oven, stoop down, and squint at the control panel. We have two wall clocks in the greater kitchen/dining zone. One classic round, which I found on the clearance table at Williams-Sonoma quite a few years ago, and a more recent acquisition--directly from the Alzheimer’s Store online--a big, white standard clock-face over which resides a flip-type readout which tells us (today) that it’s “WED 3 FEB.” I rely on this calendar help quite a bit myself, as I tend to be lax where keeping track of dates is concerned. And for a while, Jeff remembered to look at this clock.

But now, the oven display. Which is, now that I thought about it, digital. This all makes sense. What is an analog clock, but a graphic, pie-chart representation of time? And what is a big thing Jeff can’t do? Read graphs.

Flashback to 2004. We and all 4 kids are visiting Jeff’s brother Wade in Boulder, Colorado. Wade is working, and we’ve decided to drive to Pike’s Peak, near Colorado Springs, to give oxygen deprivation a try. I’m driving south (by then, I mostly was driving,) in our rented minivan (completely inadequate, I might add, for Rocky Mountain terrain,) and I want to know, for my own sense of orientation, how much ground we’ve covered between Boulder and Colorado Springs. With the sense of foreboding that goes with doing something about which you know better, I hand Jeff the Colorado highway map. “Find Boulder,” I say. “It’s that smaller yellow blob, just northwest of Denver.” Jeff stares intently, as if staring intently will cause what has become--to him--nothing but a confusing array of lines and colors to make sense. I realize what I had suspected: He can no longer read maps. At this point, I know I should forget about my desire for orientation and live with the uncertainty of being “somewhere” between Denver and Colorado Springs, but instead, I ask Jeff if he would mind giving the map to Rachel, who is sitting in the seat behind him. He has a mini temper-tantrum and throws it behind him. Rachel orients me, and I’ve learned something new about Jeff’s cognition, 3 years pre-diagnosis.

So I realize what has happened. Jeff can’t read an analog clock. We need to find him a digital watch. After rejecting the too-expensive options at assorted mall kiosks, we stop at Kohl’s on the way home, and I zero in on a Timex Expedition with nothing going on but the time and date. It is in a counter-top case, with many other Timex models. Jeff points to a plain-looking analog. “How about that one?” he says, “it looks simple.” In fact, I say to myself, it looks just like the watch you already have, and it occurs to me, then and there, to conduct a small clinical test. “Let’s see which watches are easiest to read,” I say. (I am helped in this test, by the fact that none of these watches have been set to the proper time, so they’re all different.) Then, I point to various of them and ask him to tell me what time it reads. Each time I point to a digital he tells me straight away. “3:32, 6:28, 11:05.” When I point to an analog, he hangs...like a computer with frozen software. “Uhhh...” And I switch to a different, digital one.

We choose the light brown one. He likes it. He does not realize why he can read some and not others. He thinks the ones he can’t read are just “too busy” or something.

We stop for a treat at Baltimore Coffee & Tea. For Jeff, this means simply coffee. For me, this means a “Snow Angel” Latte--chocolate and vanilla with soymilk. We take turns using the facilities. When it is Jeff’s turn, he heads to the rear of the shop. This is what you see: two doors, plainly marked, with tea displays to the left and right. I am watching. He doesn’t know what to do. He peers at both doors, then turns to the tea shelves on the right to see if they’ll provide any assistance. I hurry to the back of the store, turn the handle to the men’s room and say “right here.” Brains are complex, and they fail complexly.

blogging by iPhone email...

...doesn't format properly, I see. (Shall fix it.)

7 up, 7 down

I like the view from the 7th floor of Georgetown University Hospital. Across Reservoir Road, a pair of retrievers is trampling merry dog prints all over the snow in the middle of the University practice field, while their person runs laps on the track. Not far beyond, the highest tower of the National Cathedral is poking its four spires above a row of old, and therefore well-built houses. If we were across the hall we'd be looking at the Washington Monument obelisk.

Behind me, Jeff is being unwired from an EKG machine. Soon I am summoned to think of two events--one within the last week, and one within the last month, which Jeff will be asked to recall. I think of our flight to Colorado 3 weeks ago, and the snowfall over the weekend, providing useful details to the extent that my sometimes foggy memory permits.

I hope that we'll have time for lunch. Even a Chipotle burrito. A last-minute change in routine (the usual ride going home sick) means we'll be hightailing it from D.C. to Baltimore to retrieve a couple of schoolboys this afternoon. I've brought snacks, and we could avail ourselves of the bag lunches on offer to clinical research participants, but they aren't my favorite, and seasoned rice and black beans always appeal.

Funny thing--as we were headed toward the stairwell from our parking space in the catacomb-like L7 level of the underground garage (that's level negative 7,) a healthy looking man said "Elevator's broken. But the east-side one is working." And he took off across the long, gloomy tomb of a garage to the far stairwell. People really don't use stairs, do they? I thought, as Jeff and I walked up the stairs.

Maybe I should shovel

Although the hefty batch we got just before Christmas was all the snow I needed this winter, today’s is at least picturesque, without the dubious promise of 2 feet lingering on the ground for weeks on end. No, it should be well and completely dispatched by Tuesday, so today--a Saturday--I’m not minding it. In fact, I’ll pop a log or two in and sit facing the fireplace once Gabe has ended his marathon shower, and I’m certain the exhaust fan is off. What I don’t want to do, when it’s 17〫F outside, is suck smoke into the house and have to open windows.

Jeff wants coffee. He pulls a random bag of rock-hard beans out of the freezer and waves it at me. “Do we have something high-test to use?” he inquires. I take the frozen bag and put it back, then make him a 4-cup pot. It’s not that I’m trying to make the coffee-making procedure arcane but, even at its simplest, it’s got too many steps for Jeff. At the moment we have a freezer shelf well-stocked with various bags of ground fair-trade beans, brought back by Katherine from her last business trip to Central America. So, my usual protocol--mix equal parts caffeinated and decaf, store in ziplocs, grind just before brewing--has been temporarily disrupted to allow for grinding the decaf, then mixing with the El Salvadoran, or Panamanian, or Mexican pre-ground, and pushing “go.”

The fire has started, its cooperation finessed by use of a mini java-log starter, and now I suspect that the Estonian timber will not last long. The bread machine is rattling along through its first knead cycle in the kitchen, and the dog is gazing dolefully out the front window, wishing someone would take her out to play “Balto.” Perhaps this afternoon, mukluks strapped in place, I will.

The next chapter of my story awaits, ready for me to fill in the details of a new setting. It’s a tower, at the top of which lives and works a wealthy eccentric...but the devil--as they say--is in the details, and Clarence my muse seems reluctant to take him on.

Gabe is proposing Candid Camera-style scenarios. “What if a family is in the kitchen, and a person they don’t know walks down the stairs, and casually asks if they have any milk?” I’m supposed to have a good answer to this sort of question. I wonder about Gabe’s roommate for next year. Will he dig a discussion about the relative merits of being able to control dust with your mind versus having the power to enlist the assistance of every lightning bug in the vicinity? Meanwhile, Gabe has selected a phase B plan--he’ll ask for deferred admission to a school in North Carolina which has accepted him. Then, after a preparatory year in Connecticut, he can stay or transfer. There are hurdles--for instance, I still have to take him driving until I get him licensed--but I feel, at least, like I’m clearing them, one at a time, without too many skinned knees.

No fowl.

How much of a nuisance can a scruffy thing weighing in at about 7 pounds be? Somewhat. As we returned from morning errands, Hazel’s bid for attention took the form of bopping sundry items--from pens to a stack of newspapers--off the kitchen table, maximizing their splat value. She did not catch on, until I set one of the bags down, and she stuck her small, slightly scabby head inside, that one of our calls had been to the purveyor of fowl-free kitty foods, otherwise known as “Crunchies Natural Pet Foods.”

You’d hope that a kitty you rescued as a desperate and homeless six-month old, 10 years ago, by tossing a hoodie over her and taking her home, would have the courtesy to not be an unnecessary expense. But, for reasons known only to her mast cells and basophils (and they’re not talking,) bird in her diet will provoke her to lick herself into a bald, gooey, pink thing.

It took some time to completely figure this out. Several years ago, when this all started, the standard-issue “hypo-allergenic” food for cats, purchased through the veterinarian, was made of duck and green peas. I thought I was doing all I could, yet I still had to cart her in every 3-4 month for a steroid injection when the bald pink patches appeared. Clearly not a healthy choice. A couple years into this protocol, the vet informed me that now duck was considered to have similar allergenicity to chicken. At this point I turned to Crunchies, 15 minutes down the road, to seek alternatives.

Chicken-free cat food at the grocery store would be a rare find but, at Crunchies, I can come home poorer in cash, but well-stocked with small cans containing venison, rabbit, lamb (Forest Friends, Becca calls it,) and seafood of assorted stripes. Each new variety must be put to the test. When you open a can of food that your cat doesn’t like, she doesn’t say “Thanks for trying, but it appears that somebody put the bass-o-matic on 'chop’ instead of ‘puree.’” No, she leaves off the “thanks” part altogether, and just stares at you the way the aliens at the end of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull stare at Cate Blanchett just before they make her head combust. So you say “Aha...‘Outback Grille’ is out, eh? How about some nice ‘Polynesian BBQ?’” Actually, you rarely offer a second choice. Once a variety has been established as “acceptable,” subsequent refusals will nix it from a position on the “buy” list, but my on-the-spot response will be more along the lines of, “Fine then. Looks like it’s nothing but fishy kibbles for you today.” So far my head has not exploded from the glaring.

She has not required a steroid injection in almost 2 years though, thanks to her bird-free diet. She’s still a bit of an itchier-than-average thing...I guess some of us just come into the world that way.

Chessie, on the other hand, is permitted a dish of chicken-based kibbles in the garage, where Hazel never goes. (Having spent her first winter alone, outdoors, and cold, Hazel does not trust outside, and will not go there.) Hazel and Chessie rarely have matching preferences in canned food, though they both favor rabbit. (I realize that rabbits must breed quickly, because they apparently taste too good not to.) They both universally panned this morning’s selection. So much so that Chessie crankily bopped Hazel on the head, and Hazel doubled the intensity of her laser-stare. “Marbella Paella” has been culled from the list. Another breakfast down.

I've neither a sent nor a kroon, but perhaps a Euro...

My dad collected coins when he was a kid. They lived in a box, in the upper reaches of my parents' closet, and one day--when I was about 12--he let me choose one. Maybe he hoped, since I'd been pretty much a wash-out in my half-hearted venture into his current hobby--basketball (he coached,) that an interest in numismatics might provide an intellectual diversion from my usual vague activities of tromping through the woods and neglecting to brush my hair. (My brother collected stamps and encyclopedic knowledge. My sister collected straight A report cards and horse-show ribbons. I collected dirt under the fingernails and dust under my bed.) 

As it happens, it didn't take. But I remember the coin I chose. It was an Estonian "1 sent."  (plural: senti.) It was tiny and cute, and that was the basis on which I'd selected it. I knew nothing about Estonia. I don't know what became of that coin. I kept it in a box of random objects, with a pearl from Sea World in Florida, and a small gold cross pendant of the sort people used to give babies, but babies never wore. I'm sure my mom eventually dispersed/dispensed, or otherwise dispatched those objects and that box, after I left home. 

Fast forward to the present. As I mentioned in another entry, I have a small stash of hardwood, purchased at Whole Foods Market, next to my fireplace. The wood, oddly, was imported from Estonia. I don't know why they'd sell Estonian firewood in Annapolis. The point is, though, that I thought of my firewood as I watched the opening panoramic vistas in the film The Singing Revolution, because there they were--the verdant forests and hills of the Baltics sweeping past--former home of the logs I've yet to burn.

The film is a documentary, tracing the history of Estonia's occupation by a succession of external forces, from the time of Czarist Russia, to the final--very recent--efforts to sweep away the remaining hold of the U.S.S.R (as it lost its grip all over the place.) I assume that the gaping hole in my familiarity with Estonia and its close neighbors--Latvia and Lithuania--stems from the fact that when I was going to high school, Estonia was a Soviet Socialist Republic, not yet enjoying the relative liberties of perestroika and glasnost, and the Iron Curtain was a barrier we rarely peered behind, even from the boring comfort of 10th grade European History. 

Childhood impressions are weird, and while I could have told you next to nothing about the nature of the nation of Estonia, I could have attached emotive words to my vague impressions of the Iron Curtain concept--cold, grey, metallic--most likely the very impressions our post-McCarthy curriculum would have wanted to impart to our young democratic minds.

Hence, if my guess about the Estonian people might have been that they were a drab and colorless lot, with drawn faces and dreary raincoats, huddled around the clanking radiator in a two-room apartment while dining on the solitary potato that was for sale at the market...well, I would have been mistaken. Not that the fear and chill evoked by the specter of Soviet occupation didn't feature in the story of Estonia's emancipation--it certainly did, and many if not most of the players interviewed for the film had spent time in Siberia, while the rest lived under the threat. But, still, the people portrayed in the documentary took me by surprise. 

So much blond hair. A Scandinavian-looking bunch, for sure. Now, I'm not going to argue that I didn't fail myself in obtaining a proper education, because I most certainly did...but I think it's all too easy for American schoolchildren (if they get a sense of Eastern Europe at all, and they might not,) to mix up things like Baltic and Balkan.

Thus, when imagining an Estonian, it is important to imagine an Estonian. And not, let's say, a Macedonian. Because the fact that Estonians are closely linked to the Finns in both language and ethnicity is quite obvious, once you begin to pay attention.

When you grow up in middle-America, thinking that your second grade textbook, Greenfield, U.S.A, gives a reasonably accurate picture of what life is like, you tend--at least as a child--to extend such assumptions about life (safety, comfort, friendliness, plenty,) to encompass the folks on that continent over that-a-way...Europe. (You have no such illusions about the other continent over that-a-way...Africa...because that's the one they always use to illustrate how things aren't always so great.) 

And you assume that stuff you saw in old newsreel footage--Nazis, concentrations camps, the strafing of cities by small buzzing planes--is history. As in, distant history. (Maybe it was easier to be so oblivious as a 12 year old in 1974 than it would be for a 12 year old in 2010, who has to learn why she can only bring liquids in 3 oz increments on airplanes.) But, anyway...here's the remarkable thing about Estonia in the 20th Century--When the Allies routed the Third Reich, and the parts of Europe about which I knew the most returned to a way of life I would have more or less recognized--the Soviets marched right back into the Baltic countries. Estonia continued to experience a continuity of bad news until the last of the Soviet forces marched away in 1994. That's practically yesterday.

And here, on film, are sweeping scenes of a beautiful, wooded landscape, and the lovely singing faces of people who are neither drab, metallic, nor wearing grey raincoats. But who are both young, and still remember when singing was, maybe, a slightly risky proposition. 

konnichiwa and extra mushrooms, please.

Today I stepped, with minor trepidation, into room 205 for day #1 of 3rd semester Japanese. The misgivings had nothing to do with whether I'd be able to remember that the "te" form of iku is itte and not ite. Nor did I retain any lingering fear that Lizzie-san--with her plastic tiaras, fishnet stockings, and tendency to burst out in punk rock songs in the middle of class--would be sitting behind me, destined to be lumped with me for another group project. (Lizzie-san, no doubt, failed to make the 2nd to 3rd semester cut anyway, having run shrieking from the building on the day we were slated to deliver our group presentation. I mussed my hair a bit to play her role, and the remaining 3 of us got on just fine.) The new girl in class (well, new to me anyway,) wears a black trench coat and declares her name to be "Bouzu," which means something along the lines of "bald monk." In fact, she is not bald, but her hair is very short. I'm not concerned. Monks are not given, as far as I know, to singing in class.

No, I was concerned about Jeff, whom I'd left downstairs in the lobby, by the coffee bar, with a tall cup of joe and Accounting for Dummies. An hour and a half is quite a while to wait, and I knew that if he decided to hunt down a bathroom, or step outside to take the air, he could be tricky to relocate. I stuck the cell phone that he doesn't know how to use in his shirt pocket, having earlier scrawled across its back, in indelible black marker: Emily 555-555-5555. (Well, no...not really 555...my real phone number, for which the 5s are subbing. But you knew that.) And I changed the ring to something more shrill that he'd be sure to recognize as a phone-ring, and not a random jazz riff appearing in the air out of nowhere.

As it turned out, he waited just fine. And I realized, afterward, that a smaller solarium-like lounge, at the end of the hall on the second floor, might be a safer, less frenetic place to wait, should he keep preferring to come with me.

And as for Japanese class, I am glad I'm still at it. Apart from a few minor switch-ups in class roster, (Lizzie⇋Bouzu, as mentioned, being one,) the classroom was a mirror-image of last semester, with (this time) Paul-san to the left, Duane-san to the right, and several other pleasantly familiar faces. It's something my brain needs. Brains are like pizza dough. Real, handmade, Italian pizza dough that needs to be pummeled a bit before being tossed in the air, spun a few rotations, then stretched against its natural elastic tendency to shrink back on itself. Well, take that brain. 46 new kanji to learn this semester. Exactly the kind of abuse I need. And I guess, if worse comes to worse, I can sit Jeff in the back of the classroom.

zip

I did my best to keep Jeff's coat alive. The gray, puffy "Jim Whitaker" down jacket from L.L.Bean, which he'd had for roughly 20 years. It was dirty, stained, and beginning to sprout holes. And the zipper pull was a distant memory. But still, for inexplicable reasons, that was the zipper he could still fasten. Even without a pull. Not every time, but often. 

I enjoined him, occasionally, to switch his devotion to the equally gray, equally puffy, Sierra Designs Gore-tex jacket. But he insisted it was "too good." Not that it's at all good, really. I used to wear it, years ago, before I became enamored of all-black, all the time, in my outerwear selections. (well, except for my raincoat, which is raspberry.) And it is, in fact, older than the Jim Whitaker. And missing a zipper pull. Instead, it has a small o-ring, which I slipped on in lieu of the original pull.

But, I do what I can for Jeff, because he drew a crappy card from the deck, and I think he deserves small indulgences such as wearing an ugly old coat, if it pleases him to do so. So, I decided to fix the big hole in the sleeve which had begun spewing feathers around the front hallway. (Note: just because the material a coat is made of reminds you of the sleeping bag you fixed with an iron-on patch 10 years ago, does not mean it is the same material.) I tried to iron on a patch. Well, the hot iron had scarcely made contact with the coat, when fizzzzoooosh...where once there had been a ½" slit, there was now a 2" diameter gaping melt-hole. I gave up, and tossed Jim Whitaker in the trash. 

So now It's Sierra Designs, which should have as much beat-up old cachet as Jim Whitaker. But here's the problem: Jeff can't do the zipper. He also can't do the zipper on the buff-colored wool jacket I recommend to him on more temperate days. With either of these jackets, he snaps the bottom snap, then snaps the top snap, leaving a big, gaping belly-full of exposed shirt underneath. It's useless for me to explain or demonstrate. His ability to zip zippers went in the trash with the Jim Whitaker jacket. Reminds me of the old grandfather clock song, but kind of less picturesque. 

So I do the zippers.

Pile o'shoes? Well, okay.

I think there will be a moment where young adult children, departing to resume their at-school lives, realize that it would be thoughtful to leave their rooms tidy. Maybe pick up the towels and other flotsam off the bathroom floor. Maybe toss empty dental floss containers and underwear packaging in the trash can instead of on the floor. As it stands now, I usually allot the day or two following their decampment to washing towels, piling abandoned garments in baskets, picking up little bits of trash, and vacuuming the remainder.

To be fair, I am aware that it pleases them to wait until the last minute to gather the scattered necessities. At home, one is in at-home mode. It is a time to decompress, as much as is possible, from the obligations of academia, and no one is anxious to attach a whole new set of must-dos to that interlude. I am hardly the picture of the overly put-upon domestic maternal figure, anyway. Don't like it, don't do it...and nobody much cares. But, I do need my visual space. And my personal definition of visual space is essentially the same as not-cluttered. I believe objects must emit a certain type of radio frequency that my brain is unfortunately unable to tune-out, hence the more there are, the more energy that might be put toward attempting to write an intelligent paragraph is diverted to communing with the cacaphony of objects strewn about the kitchen table or the bathroom floor. And I did mean cacaphony. It's almost noise. 

There's another side of it, though, that I noted this morning as I walked into the upstairs hallway and observed the absence of extra people living behind the extra doors. People are a fair trade-off for a reduction in the Spartan simplicity of my space. 

Even microbiological cultures have to try

(note: this is the last in a series of posts I made from my iPhone while on a trip to Colorado with Jeff. I posted in bits, hence, the sequence is backwards! Annoying, I know. To make sense of them, scroll down--next page maybe--and start with the one labeled "Start here...")

We're probably roughly over Indiana. It's dusk. The world below
remains lightly dusted with snow, cut every which-way with dark
streaks, like the veins in blue cheese. In patches, human civilization
spreads out--random cultures in a global petri dish, with a
luminescent trait. I can't tell you whether they're gram positive or
negative.
It's a little hard to fathom--watching these clusters glow, spread,
and interlace their tentacles--a pov which insists that the prevalence
of humans does NOT affect the Earth's climate. But to acknowledge that it does need not equal an indictment. Life, of any sort, tries to prevail. Don't know how we'll do longer-term. I hope we figure out and implement a good trick or two without the cross-purposes of our conflicting motives reducing it all to static. Maybe.

Let me just add, that when breakfast coffee is served in a small white ceramic cup labeled "illy," it cannot help but be delicious.

There is a toasted Einstein honey-wheat bagel with hummus in my carry-on for cross-country sustenance. Soggy, possibly, but better than airline Chips Ahoy crisps. I hope Jeff and Wade will have a good week, and that the dishes are washed at home.

And now I am on my way home. I left Jeff and Wade after breakfast, and am relishing the time alone--from the quiet drive across somewhat-barren Boulder County, to my imminent flight, on which I will be concerned only with the upright and locked status of my own seat-back.

Wade chided me for buying $10 "earlybird boarding" privileges for our Southwest flights, because Jeff's health status should be enough to let us access priority boarding. Here's the thing--so far, he is much more comfortable playing that card than I am.

Prior to dinner, yesterday's most useful activity consisted of finding a means to make it easier for Jeff to tie his shoes. Wade recommended shoes such as his, which laced with bungee shoestrings, cinched with one of those spring-loaded locking gizmos. The perfect pair were not in evidence at the 3 shops we visited, so I went with putting spring-cinch thingies on his existing shoes. There is a problem in that he can pull the plastic mechanism off and be befuddled. This will take further study, and perhaps bona fide bungee laces when he gets home.

Last night's dinner spot was called Sushi Tora, which, thanks to my iPhone Kotoba dictionary, I can translate as sushi tiger. I did not order tiger myself, but my teriyaki tofu, miso soup, and wasabi mashed potatoes proved that it is possible for a Japanese restaurant to be as good as Joss in Annapolis.

Hi! Go all the way down to the fireplace pokers and read backwards!

The morning with a cup of coffee view

We have worked at making sure he can identify the correct rowhouse should he wander out alone. He seems to be retaining "660," and we've employed more visual cues: "See? 3' tall wooden Confucius with only half a face? This is the house."

Jeff's struggles seem incrementally more severe. I will appreciate Wade's review, after 5 days with Jeff and not me.

then came back to this far better than average townhouse and drank a glass of Argentinian Malbec. Wade's dog Kashi is sweet, and our hosts--friends from whom he's currently renting a room--are a great couple. I bought them a couple bottles of red at the Boulder Wine Merchant today. (Barbara thinks that I look like EmmyLou Harris. How could I not?)

But we are here. We grabbed a yummy late (for our East Coast bellies) dinner with Wade at a little Pan-Asian hole-in-the-wall called 5 Spice,

A few miles down the highway, something started to go "screeeeeeee."
"Jeff," I said, "your window might be a little open."
Thankfully, he was buckled in, because his reaction was to open the door, at 65mph. His reflexes worked. He pulled it closed. And the screeeeeeee got louder, at which point I realized his knee was hitting the window crank. I pointed this out and, remarkably, he tightened it. No more screee.

You know those National car rental ads where the guy says "I can choose any car in the aisle???" Well, our "aisle" consisted of a Hyundai Accent and a similar Chevy. I picked the Hyundai because it was silver, not white, and off we went to discover that--compared to the Hyundai--my Soobie is a luxury car. It took me a couple secs to figure out how to roll down the window (a crank.)

(we are about to have blueberry pancakes, courtesy of Wade. More when my coffee/food/blood sugar ratio has restabilized. )

It is also one of the catch-22s of Alzheimer's that the greater the need for assistance, the less welcome such assistance will be. Hence, whether I was pointing Jeff toward the proper end of the plane for exiting or trying not to lose him in the flow of humans, his expression remained: "What's your problem?"
This dynamic intensified as we boarded a shuttle bound for the car rental lot. Jeff could not sort out how to place his duffel on the rack, let go of it, then join me on a seat. As I gave him step by step directions, the guy sitting opposite chuckled--clearly one of those "women...pains in the butts, aren't they?" kind of things. Then Jeff decided he needed to put his coat on in the 80 degree F shuttle...and I didn't help. So I think the guy, and--I'm quite certain--the shuttle driver, finally caught on as Jeff couldn't ascertain top, bottom, inside, nor outside of his jacket. Still, I hit a point. One of those points where you know you'll continue to be judged for your "overbearing " behavior by people who have no clue what's actually going on, and I was thankful I had tucked tissues in my carry on bag, as I stared out the bus window and dabbed.

Anyway, there are few times when Jeff is more disoriented than at the end of a flight. I don't know why this would be...perhaps the brain has instrumentation which approximates the work of the plane's navigational gear, and the particular deficits from which he suffers leaves him more scrambled than usual. But it is so.

It occurs to me, as I blog in text-bits, that this story will post backwards. But the Colorado sun is shining. Perhaps I don't care too much.

Yesterday, we ate an adequate, if overpriced meal at the Silver Diner/BWI airport before boarding our 1:15pm flight. Being crammed into airplane seating for a mere 3.5 hours is tolerable, but resolved me to become rich enough to afford business class before I fly again to more distant geographical points.

It's good to feel good. Yesterday, en route to Denver, I had my moments.

row of houses across the street to a glow, and a small red hatchback is adding a charming accent. Not my usual reaction to the aesthetic offerings of cars and housing developments, but it doesn't hurt that this particular row of homes sits just in front of the foothills of the Flatirons.

Start here...

(This is where the Colorado sequence starts!)
At the moment I'm feeling some Colorado Rocky Mountain high. Out the front window of this rowhouse north of downtown Boulder, the morning light is burnishing the earthy tones of a

Have Estonian wood, will poke.

Today’s field trip, hastily stuffed into the schedule when it became clear that none of the daughters-on-break required my feeding services, took us north of Baltimore, to Wegman’s. Wegman’s is known for its general bigness, and--I guess--fabulousness, but, as there isn’t one which is by any means a practical commute from Chez Em, it became a fun, rather than practical outing. Especially when combined with a need to poke our burning fireplace logs with something other than a 14” stainless steel shishkebab skewer. Right there, near Wegman’s, see, is a Plow & Hearth store--the sort of place that causes you to walk around thinking Wow...if only my yard weren’t a concave mudpit where the sunlight is completely blocked by those trees that like to drop branches on the car in the middle of February ice storms...‘cause then I’d buy that eucalyptus garden bench, yes sir.

But, as it turns out, our yard is that thing that I said, and also I’m aggravatingly whimsical when it comes to spending money. And most of the time, I don’t want to. Still, I spied a set of wrought-iron fireplace tools, which met the dual criteria of functional and simple (except for the shafts charmingly twisted like wire coat hangers,) and accepted the display set when none were available packaged. Not that I wanted a package anyway.

But, as for Wegman’s: We ate lunch there, in the dining area that appears to go on forever, giving you countless different options for overlooking the shoppers below, as you eat your reasonably adequate fried rice and egg roll from the Asian hot bar. And your partner eats his chicken caesar salad. Which is kind of what he always eats.

But, indeed...big it was. Not only big though, it was partitioned up into sections that--from a bird’s eye view--must closely resemble the very random patchwork of tilled fields you see as you fly over, say, Indiana. Which means more of a maze than continuous aisles. This poses a bit of a problem for us, as Jeff likes to tail me by about 5 paces, but cannot track as I turn a corner. Hence, I must stop, peer back around into the the corridor where he is considering following the woman in the blue coat instead (her hair, after all, is blondish too,) and get his attention, and not completely disappear from view again until I’m certain he’s on the right track. And this happens in Wegman’s about every 15 feet. As a consequence, today’s purchases were limited to a french baguette (well, batard, actually,) a canister of “Peppermint Joy” tea, a mesh sack of grapefruit, and a package of store-label multigrain english muffins.

Yeah, it was a fun outing. I try not to mind noticing things, such as how much less useful it becomes, incrementally, to ask Jeff which fireplace poking set he prefers. These, I say, pointing at the twisted shaft ones, or these, I say, pointing to the set with simple hooks at the top, but a “bird cage” embellishment in the middle of the rack. I point down at a set. He gazes vaguely at the confusing array of visual stimuli at floor level and says “those are good.” Then he stands exactly in front of the service counter until 3 different clerks have asked if he needs something, at which point it occurs to my slow brain (I am admiring dog beds, and cat-shaped door-stops, you see,) and position him in a slightly more out of the way spot.

So, if they build a Wegman’s down the road from us, as has been rumored for roughly 5 years now, I’ll visit. I still prefer Whole Foods Market. But, given my grocery shopping druthers, I would evict Food Lion from it’s prime spot near Clement Hardware, and insert a Trader Joe’s.

Ok, so I'm ready to poke logs. But there is this weird thing, that just occurred to me: The logs I bought at Whole Foods the other day? They're birch, from Estonia. Why in the world does my firewood need to be imported from Eastern Europe? You know, I should have swapped it out for the bags of local stuff, but I wasn't paying attention. I grabbed a hefty sack full, from the pile by the underground parking garage, carried it up the stairs, plunked it in my cart, wiped the bits of bark off my coat, and then realized that I'd also carried up the sign that said "European Birch." So, I carried the sign back downstairs, and replaced it on the pile before I even noticed the domestic wood pile on the other side of the doorway. Next time. For now, I'm sure our next fire will burn with a almost-Russian accent. Looking forward to it.

ok...twenty-ten, let's see you.

Day four of 2010, and so far I like it. Even with the cold. Even walking back from Rams Head On Stage, through the darkened streets of Annapolis (after seeing Maggie Sansone and company,) in 20℉ (which I realize is piddling to those in more northerly climes.) Even with the cold, I like it. I cannot recommend long undies and hats strongly enough, but these are not negative factors.

Nor did I mind my usual morning routine of helping Jeff put his jacket on right-side out, cleaning up his spilled o.j., and pre-determining his need for an english muffin, a butter knife, a coffee cup, and some directional pointers.

I am presently waiting for the girls who, last night, announced that “going to breakfast” would be an excellent idea. It will not be my breakfast by the time they get up--it will be my lunch, or brunch or something...but food is good.

I like that it is the first day of Gabe’s last semester of high school. I don’t think he particularly likes it, but--for me--it represents the possibility of change. I cannot predict anything much. I cannot predict how Jeff will do as time goes on, or whether I’ll want to live somewhere smaller, or whether I’ll never leave...but just the potential for different choices, different activities, and--most likely--different challenges, at least engenders a slight serotonin spike, and I never argue with serotonin spikes.

But here we are, on day #1 of semester #8 (final,) in the coldest, darkest part of the winter, counting down the 5ish final months of getting up at 5:15 am, as the days progressively lengthen (yay sun!) and warm up.

To be sure, peri-menopausal moodiness is unlikely to have stayed behind in ’09, nor will have existential angst, but--yes, thank you--I will accept all good moods that care to apply.

this does not make me a consumer.

I go to the store, at night, for fun.

I don’t know, frankly, whether it’s a sign of ends which have become even looser, or evidence that my mood has picked up and I’m more motivated to seek entertainment. Surely it is, whatever else, a distraction--a means of presenting my brain with stimuli that will divert it from the doldrums of company that isn’t company, and conversation that, well, isn’t.

Actually, that’s why I’m partly looking forward a great deal to next Fall, when I’m no longer bound by the parameters of Gabe’s carpool schedule. Do stuff, go places, see things, write about them*...and not spend much time feeling the soggy, pervasive, and useless guilt that comes from feeling I should be able to entertain a presence who is neither entertaining nor entertainable.

And, for whatever non-ecological reason--I am better company to Jeff in the car. I can talk about something or nothing, he appears interested, and it’s ok that it won’t stick, or even be thoroughly comprehended.

*Yes. Write about places of interest that we visit and not the tiresome drivel of a brain in a rut.

This week I have done it twice. Once to the mall, (where I purchased jeans which I meant to acquire anyway,) and last night to Trader Joe’s, where I beefed up the larder. But without beef. Or lard. It was cold, and it was windy--but the thing is, I’m not minding the arctic chill. I’m just looking for fun. And the vacuum carafes of sampleable coffee, on the service counter at TJ’s is, yes it is, fun. And so are two lovely packages of chickenless nuggets.

I kind of wish they’d go ahead and tell us what Gabe needs for his housing situation next Fall, although I don’t expect to learn more details until this summer. Because, then we will acquire them. And that will be fun.

duck

Just before you are born, you go to the little plastic wading pool, with extra water jets installed, and pick a duck. There are swarms of little floating plastic ducks, clumping, whirling, and eddying in the wading pool, and you just pick one.

It is natural to feel a swell of hopeful expectation as you grab your duck--it could be an extraordinary one, with the special marking on its belly designating you as someone charged to be a notable persona among zillions of plain-bellied ducks. Well, of course you aren’t going to be a duck, regardless (unless you are a duck,) but an extraordinary duck selection means you’ll be launched with an extra spark of zest, charisma, or dynamism--the sort of person whom plain-bellied duck pickers admire, and say things about like: It would be great to be able to sing like that! or where does she get her great ideas?

A lot of people who pick a fancy duck may end up sort of half-wishing they’d picked a plain duck. And, odds are, you did pick a plain duck. It’s exceedingly rare not to. As for me, I am still not clear on whether the magic markings on the bottom of the ducks, and the subsequent “significance” they convey, may not be just a red herring. This is a definition for red herring: A red herring is an idiom referring to a device which intends to divert the audience from the truth or an item of significance.

Now that I am becoming slightly more hip to sleight of hand, as Gabe’s primary test audience, I am learning to look toward that which I am being distracted away from. Still, as far as ducks go, it’s clear I picked a plain-bellied duck. Now...just what is the item of significance away from which my attention has been diverted? When I find it, I may have to attach an electronic beeper to it.