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.

I will yell Happy New Year in the morning?

There are Trader Joe’s “Mini Morning Buns” in the oven. I suppose the morning is as mini as any. It’s 8:40, and I’ve barely done more than get the buns going and start the elliptical for Jeff. What it means to start the elliptical is 1)Turn on the TV to CNBC. Harder than you think. One remote to turn it on, and adjust volume, another to aim at the cable box for channel selection. And both subject to disappearing in couch crevices. Then I push the green button on the elliptical console, twice, and invite him to climb aboard.

Trader Joe’s mini morning buns come in an awkward packaging size for the current crew-in-residence. 12 minis/box. One box means I should only eat 2. Two boxes means I can eat 4 or 5, but there will be leftovers to dry out. Easy call: 2 boxes.

It’s 10:55 am, and my left shoulder is holding me accountable for having slept on it last night. Darned if there’s a position that works, without repercussions, anymore. I may look into stringing a hammock across the room this year. Seriously. Could work. Meanwhile, Jeff is about to be scooped up by his sister for a kindly social call to an old friend of his late mother, and I’ll visit the grocery for some last minute peanut butter cake ingredients, since I’m supplying New Year’s day dessert.

1:00. Eating leftover Indian food, in our usual scavengy way. Happily, there’s enough rice to dilute the chickpeas channa masala, which smart a bit straight. Then Jeff and Helen return, mission accomplished. Jeff is wearing a brown leather shoe on his left foot, and a mahogany suede shoe on his right. I point the discrepancy out, but he is baffled, so I take his suede shoe upstairs and swap it for the other brown one. I hand it to Jeff, and he reaches to remove the other brown shoe from his left foot. “No,” I say, “put on this shoe.” He remains baffled. “Where?” “Put this shoe on this foot.” He struggles with the laces. Olivia catches my reflexive movement and verbally holds me off. “He can do it he can do it!” she chides. He more or less does.

3:30. I am presently vegging on the living room couch. My macbook battery indicator suggests a re-juicing. At the kitchen table, four of us take turns plugging into to one AC adaptor, like the mermaids at Weeki Wachee sucking on the air hose so they can go about their underwater business. It is my AC adaptor. I am, consequently, only wired about 25% of the time when girls are home.

Girls are scuttling about, embroiled in the processes of getting ready to go out for the evening and/or head back to St. Mary’s County. Nail polish, heels no reasonable person could walk in, and the guinea pig...waiting patiently on the kitchen table while its ride takes a shower. Hazel-cat is intrigued, rolling around on top of the cage. The message is clear: I could really play with this animal if you’d let me. I busy myself with nonsense--Tiki Towers on the iPhone, Facebook stalking, anything. I’ve got chickenless nuggets in the oven for Gabe and Jeff, but I can’t relax and reheat more leftover daal for myself until the girls have launched themselves. I inform Gabe that he will be required to vacate the TV with dvd player in a while, as I plan to watch the film (500) Days of Summer which Becca has kindly left behind.

15 minutes ‘til movie time. It’s 6:40. Some combo of my glass of sauvignon blanc and general flaggedness at having launched the 3rd and final girl out the door has stripped me of any remnant of patience. I have a nonsensical conversation with Jeff about whether it’s ok for him to sit in his chair (it is) while the cat is sitting in the other one. (yes, still ok.) But I sound cranky. I wonder if I could have an email penpal, like Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail, but agree never to meet.

Halfway into the movie Gabe gets a call. He’s going to Matt’s house for the night. Goodbye Gabe. The movie was ok. Sort of sad, but the protagonist got things straightened out in the end, maybe. Me, I’m still stuck in the part where he declares it all b.s. and quits his greeting card job.

Jeff tried to go to bed. It didn’t take. It is 9:10pm. Lately, in the morning, he lies in bed until I finally stop hitting the snooze button, then pops up exactly as I do. And bedtime is increasingly unlikely until I have also succumbed. I was warned about shadowing. I know what behaviors are likely to be coming. But, if you’ve ever played Sims, and bought the sad clown painting...you know what comes next. Yes, it’s like that, but without the sobbing. The clown begins to follow you around. Something like a heavy shadow that never quite gives you privacy, but never quite intrudes either.

So, we’re having tea. Tea is the answer, if there’s no other. This is called “Organic Easy Now,” and purports to ease tension and stress. ‘Tis a pleasant brew. Well...I’ve just hatched a plan: Tonight, just after I post this, I will start a new Pages document. Over the course of the year, I will fill it with good thoughts. Every time a little lost wandering good feeling wafts by, I will place its imprint upon that page. The little lost wandering good feeling won’t mind. They like to do things like that.

It’s 9:30. I won’t make it ‘til midnight. I rarely do. ; )

(heading added later...a fish couldn't do that.)

Blogging from the iPhone? As if that can do anything to sharpen my content. I know...maybe it will make my posts shorter. Snappier? Crisper? Posts like garden-fresh string beans? Or merely symptomatic of my koi-like attention span...

Reel? or no real.

Of course the new film It’s Complicated is entirely realistic in positing a middle-aged protagoniste as the object of the competing affections of two eligible (or, not so,) suitors. I hold out hope. All the fun cannot have been passed, like a baton, to the next generation. I won’t have it.

As for the supposition that the character, played by Meryl Streep, could a)run a successful cafe/bakery, b)maintain a well-appointed house, stocked full of homemade food, and c)cultivate a beautifully groomed kitchen garden? Nonsense. But this is the movies we’re talking about.

I have selective suspension of disbelief, as required.

Partly sage, but nary the time.

I am holding this book, The I Ching for Writers, by Sarah Jane Sloane, which my friend Katherine gave me for Christmas. Now, it is normal, when I consult the regular i ching books, for the proffered advice to chide me for my need-to-know. The i ching does not care for neediness or clinginess, and when you ask a similar question too many times, it responds with the taoish equivalent of “because I said so.”

But the I Ching for writers...now this is a side door knob I haven’t yet jiggled, so just maybe I can--if not outsmart the Sage--at least take it a little by surprise, and shake out a more definitive answer. Confucius would probably say “impatient dweeb should fold laundry,” but there’s no harm in having a go at it, is there?

So, I’m going to open with a question: Is the story I’m ever-so-glacially crafting completely useless pixelation? And now to go pester the cosmos for either a) a nod, or b) a smackdown.

My coins are a mismatched set--two bronze, one silver--of hole-in-the-center, small bit pieces that came home in my father-in-law’s pocket, from China, roughly 22 years ago. They spend most of their time happily tarnished, in a small black jewelry pouch that something came in from Sundance catalog, and they’re always ready to come out and play their role in a reprimand from the Sage.

Six tosses. And it’s heaven over water (whatever that means): 6, with a changer on toss #4, making the future potential a 59. Don’t try to understand this. Just trust me. I’m sure I’m convincing. So, excuse me momentarily, as I read the interpretation...

...Ok. So, apparently, the Sage is advising me to burn something down in my story. As a means of risk-taking. Just let me say it now: If--upon its completion--you ever read this book, and think to yourself, not bad, except for the part where the city was consumed by flames,...you must blame it on the Sage, and not me.

On to 59, where the so-called moving lines have carried me: I see. Tie up the loose ends. So, first burn something down, then tidy up. It has just occurred to me that this advice may actually be intended for my fireplace, which is badly in need of a good sweeping out. But, for want of better inspiration, I will first squirt it, like powdered graphite, into the joints of my story...and just see...

One last, and not entirely welcome thought: What was my original question? Oh, right: Is the story I’m ever-so-glacially crafting completely useless pixelation? I don’t suppose the answer hits the question in a very direct way, now does it? Or does it? Fire and tidy up? Throw the whole thing into the virtual furnace? That could be what the i ching is saying, you know. But perhaps the text should reassure me. The consulted chapter advised “Writing Dangerously,” not packing it in irretrievably. So, tally ho....or FIRE! (as the case may be.) Onward.

but no scree tea.

Hmmm...what was it? One Christmas stocking pb-filled chocolate maple leaf? Or was it the homemade candy ball, straight from the land of old-fashioned food goodness, Tazewell, Virginia, that pushed my touchy head into the ibuprofen zone this morning?

I am looking out at the shlorpiest of Saturday mornings, where the the constant splat of rain has turned what seemed to be insurmountable heaps of snow into the great dismal slush swamp. We will need to go out in it. There are leftovers in the fridge, to be sure, but Jeff ate the last of the cinnamon-raisin Trader Joe British Muffins, toasted in two extremely uneven halves, this morning. As he cannot be retrained to initiate a different breakfast, I will set out to obtain more, and some milk and o.j. in the bargain.

One Subaru emerged from the snowfall with wipers unwilling to function. I certainly erred in not bearing at least one child with mechanical inclinations, so we will need to throw a bit more money in the direction of Annapolis Subaru on Monday. The rivulets of water in the basement I will not worry about. One can hardly expect a 62 year old foundation to hold this much meltwater at bay.

I wonder: Is it ever possible for humans to be as content as a kitty snuggled up in a new RocketDog deluxe black microfiber, size 8M, ankle-boot box? I would happily give each of my children--and anyone else for that matter--such a box, sized just for him/her, if it would keep them happy in the face of a world where slush-swamps and chocolate headaches, but especially the vagaries of forging important long-term relationships, are often making the path a skid zone. Well ouch. I’d keep the headaches, and sweep up all the scree.

I think tea is our security blanket. It’s warm. It steeps. You can make it with cute equipment. And it does not, as far as I know, contribute to headaches.

On the hike, I will burn wood.

There are times when the simple pleasures really are. Melancholy ebbs and flows, washing in or out an assortment of tidal flotsam, and sometimes when you’re looking at a typical evening with the increasingly usual wry acknowledgment that life ain’t always all it’s cracked up to be, (but, then again, maybe it is...or more,) the best option is to add a java log to the fire, and an inch or so to the scarf you’ll be knitting forever. (Because you only add an inch about twice a year. And yes, I did check to make sure all the bathroom exhaust fans were off before lighting the pseudolog.)

Jeff wanders in to see if I have any interesting television plans for the night. Oh, possibly a crappy Hallmark Christmas movie in an hour or so. More than likely, he will tire of his chair soon, and--as it is too late for the usual distraction of coffee--go to bed. Gabe wanders in to admire the bogus uniformity of a flame born of compressed wax, coffee grounds, and who-knows-what-else, and challenges me with the following query: Who would win in a fight between someone whose superpower was telekinesis, and someone who could teleport? I predict that it would be difficult for the teleporter to lose, but...then again...it might be equally difficult for him to win. I should hope that if I ever find myself gifted with either skill, a fight to the death will remain unnecessary. But, at the very least, I would have an easier time acquiring real wood as needed, for burning.

I’ve got a wad of cotton, infused with liquid “Bio-Ear,” tucked into my left hearing appendage. It’s some sort of concoction of herbal extracts, designed to scare off the nascent ache in my eustachian tube. This will do nothing to impair my enjoyment of the badly written dialog I’m fixing to experience shortly, on cable tv.

Did I mention I’m sitting in a rocking chair? I really am. That’s another comfort. Odd though--to observe oneself a)knitting, b)watching the fire, and c)rocking, at a life interlude when other relatively uncontrollable facets of life have left you thinking they accidentally switched you with an 85 year old, is another one of those things you can merely observe with the aforementioned wry acknowledgment. Well. I hope that 85 year old is having lots of fun, and maybe even hiking the Continental Divide Trail! Actually, I’m going to assume, right here and now, that this is the case, because it makes me feel good to think so. I very much hope, in fact, she will send me a letter that I can keep, until one day, possibly at 85, it’s me.