not quite Gitchee Gumee

Hint: If you’re like me and haven’t had a boat to paddle around in for roughly 30 years, do more than check for sun vs. rain before you take your canoe out. Also log onto weather.com and see what the winds speeds might be.

I did not do that today. Nonetheless, we battled our way through the choppy and noncompliant 2 footers that splooshed and slapped me (in the bow) all the way across Round Bay. I did feel a little like I was on the log flume ride at Dutch Wonderland, but we persisted, and were rewarded with a lovely, serene, and quiet paddle around the shores of Sherwood Forest across the river. (yes. It’s really called that. Furthermore, every house there must be painted forest green or brown. No joke.) Well, we made it around St. Helena’s island, heeding the warning not to trespass (and noting the abandoned chair at the top of the bluff. A sharpshooter sentinal’s perch?) It was the return trip that got dicey. The wind could have kept blowing in the same direction and been at our backs. But it didn’t. Instead, we forged our way through 3 footers, at about half a mile per hour. No, probably slower. By the time we reached the north shore, about 3 neighborhoods down from our beach, the conditions had become so ridiculous that if we didn’t both work our paddling muscles into lactic acidosis, the tide would simply slap us around into the opposite direction. Fun indeed. So we gave up and hauled ashore a couple beaches too far east. Oh...first we had to wade the canoe along 50 feet of shore to even reach the beach. We were soaked. We thanked the nice ladies who were chatting under the gazebo for tolerating our intrusion while we went to fetch our car. They very kindly offered us a lift, but we walked.

At this point I will have to confess to not maintaining the patient composure with which I try to handle Jeff’s not-always-perfect comprehension. But then, to reach our point of disembarkment I’d had to shout “paddle right!” or “paddle left!” over the wind, the water sloshing against docks and boats, and my patience was worn thinner than Paris Hilton, what with Jeff’s tendency to um...fail to maintain a straight course under the best of conditions. But here is the good thing. He remembers today as a fine adventure. And it was.

I am grateful that we have life vests on board. Because, you never know. After all, look what happened to the Edmund Fitzgerald. (I mean the legend lives on from the Chippewa on down, you know?) Granted, the Severn River at its widest doesn’t hold a candle to Lake Superior, but I’m sure checking on the wind speed before we go out again.

There is no way this is my 80th post

Sometimes when I walk up the stairs, I rub my fingers extra hard over the handrail--feeling the edges, gliding smoothly along the top. It’s nice to really notice that it’s there. Now that it’s there. I don’t want to ever take the house’s details for granted, now that they’re there. The doors bear looking at. So do the floors. So does the porch railing.

Yesterday, at Spring cleanup day at our beach, Jeff and I got bench duty. We’ve got a whole fleet of benches at the beach, and I have no idea how old they are, but they’re comprised of two concrete frame/leg pieces--one for each end--straddled by seven bolted-on 2x4s. A couple years ago, when several needed new slats, someone decided to try the new plastic lumber. The recycled coke bottle, or plastic bag, stuff. It warped within the first season. So, armed with a drill, a tape measure, and our circular saw, we set to work on the fresh, pressure-treated pile of lumber. We were into the cutting to length part when Jeff had to leave for his sax lesson. Then, forgetting I suppose, that it might be useful to come back, he spent the rest of the day puttering in the basement. As for me--I was intensely grateful not to be doing mulching or beach-raking, and it was quite interesting to field the reactions of neighbors who weren’t used to group efforts of this sort where a woman got the power tool job. But I cut, measured, drilled, and bolted--tweaking a hole here or there where the fit wasn’t exact--and now I am dang proud of those three benches with the fresh green, newly installed lumber. I hope everyone will sit on them at least once.

I think I’m learning to appreciate Namenda. Surely we are living on borrowed time--and time still marked by patchy memory function--but things are pretty good, and who can argue with that?

Jeff’s mom is 85. She called us with “the best news” two nights ago. One always worries when she calls with the best news. Sometimes it means that we are as rich as the Rockefellers--something she has just realized, and sometimes it means that she’s buying her entire 2000+ resident retirement complex where she will reign as queen. This time it was because she’d had the revelation that her dysfunctional, emphysemic lungs need trouble her no longer. She’ll simply have a lung transplant. After all, lung transplants are as common as pulling teeth these days, right? What could I say but “I guess you can ask your doctor about that.” Oh, she would, she assured me.

Tomorrow looks like a good canoe day. I will wear sunscreen.

paddling

Finally the weather accommodated my itch to take the red canoe out on its maiden voyage. Since we did not declare it unsinkable, karma felt no need to subject us to icebergs or other unexpected hazards, though we did hit one rubber buoy and veer closer to a hawk's nest than she would have preferred judging from her posture as she squawked at us.

I do believe we need a captain's hat we can pass back and forth. I'm unsure whether it should be a black one with a jolly roger, or an Indian chief headdress, but in either case the wearer would be eligible to call the directional shots without being considered a control freak. When it's Jeff's turn we could steer relentlessly into piers or moored sailboats. During my turn I would be able to say “Hey, maybe we should paddle on the left a few strokes just until we clear those pilings.”

Instead, and most unfortunately, I felt compelled to continuously suggest a directional change or point straight ahead and say “we're going that way!” knowing full well that at least one of the two people in the canoe believed I was being my usual bossy self. It didn't help that to start today's adventure the canoe needed to be lashed to the Soobie roof rack with two cinch straps which worked by a simple pinch and thread (as in thread it through once) mechanism. Jeff was clearly struggling a bit with the buckle but would not let me take over even though I asked very nicely several times throughout the ten minutes it took him to secure it convolutedly enough for his satisfaction. My toes were curling, oh yes they were. So when it came time to release the straps at the beach I undid mine and resorted to the subterfuge of pulling the buckle to the other side of the car, running around, and undoing his before he could get around to start messing with it. There are probably some excellent reasons why I am not a kindergarten teacher.

But what a great outing it was, despite our conflicting navigational styles (that is, picking a direction and going in it versus picking a seawall and running into it.) We saw an assortment of large birds which I should be able to identify but can't. We saw just how much stuff wealthy waterfront landowners have to maintain. (Including, I believe, Pat Sajak, but I cannot vouch for the fact that the spread with the brick stairs widening voluptuously toward the boathouse was his.) And we got a mighty fine upper body workout which I'm going to feel like crazy tomorrow.

how are you doing?

This is how Jeff phrases the question. It's a kind of random, out of the blue inquiry and my typical response is something along the lines of “I'm fine thanks. How are you?” He may ask several times a day, and his intentions are the very best, but it's been clear for a long time, even a long time pre-diagnosis, that even if my standard response is not always entirely honest, there is nothing to be gained by answering any other way.

As an interesting parallel, many who know of Jeff's situation will ask me the same question--the variation being that they put a heavier emphasis on the word you. “How are you doing?” They understand, wisely, that no one in a similar chapter of life could be completely “fine thanks,” and asking is a way to demonstrate that recognition. But pardon me, if you ever find yourself asking. I'm still most likely to say “fine thanks.”

And why wouldn't I? Because I am fine. (thanks!) Now it is undeniably true that my status quo boat is floating with its keel a little lower than it was a few years ago, but so are lots of peoples' for lots of reasons. I have swell kids. Four of 'em. (Well…we do wonder what the heck might become of a 15 year old boy who apart from a keen fondness for anime dramas and fantasy novels is a bit of a slug. But he's a good person. Gotta trust it'll add up to something.) My house is--for the first time in a decade plus--a very nice, and comfortable, place to dwell. And the odds are that if I manage well and frugally, I will not need to get a job at Trader Joe's at the exact moment that Jeff becomes most in need of my availability. So, while Jeff's diagnosis is inarguably horrendous, I find that I'm set up to manage it as well as anyone could.

But…in the interest of disclosure for those who'd really want to know: The most difficult thing about this is the reason I will almost always say “fine thanks,” to Jeff's regularly scheduled question. An early loss among the many faculties that diminish in a person with his illness is an ability to empathize. I don't mean that they have to become mean or unpleasant. Jeff is, as always, a fine person who asks how I'm doing because he wants me to be doing well. But, there is a quality to interacting with another person--particularly one with whom you are very close--which I will call “being on the same page.” That is, you can share things with that person and you know, that at least for that moment, he understands you. He is on the same wavelength. You are vibing. You are communicating at a deeper level. This can be what makes a relationship great, and nurturing, even if you have your bad moments. This is something that requires the higher cognitive function called empathy. This is something that people with Jeff's condition can't do. It is a huge, completely unquantifiable, loss.

And other than that, I am fine thanks.

It helps. I think. (maybe)

I’m trying to write, but the words don’t flow. They more like splutter out in a barely usable mess, as if from an almost-empty shampoo bottle. For want of a back up supply, I keep banging that upside-down bottle, to get the dregs out. I have my story, and it wants to be told--but for fear of failure, or ADD, or constant supply of more pressing needs--it is being coughed out in fractured bits. Oh heck...that’s better than nothing.

Jeff is rambling around with an iPod in his pocket, and earbuds in his ears. I was unaccountably enraged when he came home from his sax lesson Saturday with Sinatra, The Beatles, and all the jazz eradicated by Lou the music teacher in favor of healing words from Andrew Weil. Not that I have a problem with Andrew Weil or healing words, but after the iPod inexplicably decided to start communicating exclusively in Korean, and I got it to cut that the heck out, I was unthrilled to find that a day’s worth of downloads had been nuked. So I nuked right back. Jeff was characteristically willing to let others decide what he should listen to, and I decided with him in mind, but I’ll be danged if that iPod’s ever going back to Lou’s house.

Here’s what you get when you read the drug information for Namenda, paraphrased: How it works: We don’t really know but Frankie in the mailroom says that it has to do with Froggy plucking his magic twanger. When to use it: Late in the game. Unless you decide to use it in the middle of the game. OTOH, you might use it early in the game. How to tell if it even is working: It might be, if one of the following is true--a)you feel better. b)you feel the same. (because you might have felt worse.) c)you feel worse. (because you might have felt even worse than worse.) If one of these is true, you can assume it’s working even though statistics suggest it doesn’t work for everyone. How we derive our statistics: We rrlllllm diczzzz. WHAT? I said we assxk rrrrdggg. WHAT? Um. We ask Frankie.

Seriously. That’s actually more info than you really get. In spite of which I think it helps some in our case.

The Invisible Man

A poem, by Gabe Clement:

Look! It’s the Invisible Man!
Can’t you see him?
With his dark brown coat
and long black hair.
Don’t look him in the eyes--
He has the creepiest stare.
If you give him a hug, he’ll give you a toy.
But you didn’t hear this from me,
‘Cause I’m the inaudible boy.

J

If I could change one of my Meyers-Briggs components, I would be a P, not a J. J is a nuisance. I would not have posted that last annoying post if I were a P, not a J, because I would not feel that way. How nice it would be not to feel a need to always have to categorize and catalog an organic, amorphous world. Cultivate let it be-ness.

hush little voice

There is the slightest chance that med #2 may be having the most slight of positive effects. I feel rather glumly certain that med #1 has had no such benefit. (so do we keep buying it at ridiculous name-brand drug expense? Why?) But as for #2...could it be responsible for the reduction in backyard flotsam...the steady progress on door refinishing...the near-completion of a chapter book (ok...Robert B. Parker, but what the heck.)?

How does one even know? What if it is helping? Of course I am glad if it is. Of course I must be glad if it is. Of course I want to see the best things I can see. Of course. It is best to smile and ignore the second little voice screaming from the back of my brain “Why don’t you just kill me now and get it over with?? What? You think I want to go through this again?

Of course we will ignore that little voice. And of course, we know that any benefit derived from med #2 will be temporary, and will not change the timing or the direction of the eventual trajectory. But of course--if one more Spenser book can be read...if one more decent conversation can be had--who would turn that down? And we can ignore the little screaming voice. Or at least pat it, and say “there there,” as it shrieks “you’re teasing me! Don’t give me a warm fuzzy if you’re not going to let me keep it!”

rings

Once, when I was 15, I had a ring. (I was not a cute and nubile sort of 15. I was more of the gangly and awkward type of 15. The picture of the aphorism: It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.) I don’t remember where I got the ring. It was sterling silver, and basically a continuous strand, the diameter of string, which looped into a pretzel shaped knot. That was its decoration. I liked it.

One day--a nice day I think--I was sitting in the front yard with Duane. Duane was our exchange student from South Africa. Duane did not worry about being thought a fool. She was not. She was 2.5 years older, and several decades more mature, than I. We were sitting in the front yard, and Jeff came over from across the street. He was 29. I knew him as one of Corky’s older brothers whom I didn’t know other than to know him as one of Corky’s older brothers. But he was in our front yard to meet Duane. They chatted. I remained silent, as was the wisest move in my view, and stayed at a safe 10 or so feet away in the grass. I was playing with my ring. Fiddling with it. Taking it on and off. Duane was sitting in the grass, and Jeff was standing, in a spread-leg posture so that he would be lower to the ground, talking with her. I kept playing with my ring. I dropped it.

Then, I couldn’t find my ring. I was looking for it, but most discreetly, because the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to the fact that I’d lost something. Because then I might have to talk. Well, Jeff was still standing there, spread-legs, and without a word he flung something at me. My ring. He was 10 feet away, and I’d merely dropped it.

For the past 2 years or so, when I’m in that weird state between awake and asleep, I am seized with the notion that someone/something is trying to take my rings. Not the silver knot ring. I don’t have that. It disappeared in the transitional college years. My current rings are my gold wedding ring which is too big, and my enagement ring which is not too big and holds the wedding band on. So, typically, I’m lying in bed not-quite-asleep and I feel a little panic. I can’t articulate who or what is trying to take my rings, but it’s something. Sometimes I take them off. Sometimes I put them on my bedside table, and occasionally I get up and carry them over to my earring box and put them in it. But I’m not quite awake. Just aware enough that, when I get up in the morning, I know what I did and can find the rings.

I don’t know why I do that. I don’t have any other freaky sleep, or almost-sleep, disorders. Maybe I just know something is taking something important away from me.

no knots required

Our basement needs work. While I’ve attacked it in the past, even 5 years of clutter can seem impossible. Jeff has been working at getting some of his lumber flotsam up and out, but he tends to rummage in the non-lumber areas as well, and it is not uncommon for the basement to belch up several books, or another oddment which I’m just not ready to deal with yet.

Let’s leave that in the basement, I say. I’m just not ready to sort it yet. So back down it goes. Usually with me.

Today’s surprise basement burpage was a batch of semi-unrolled blueprint packets, strewn copiously across the kitchen counter. I recognized them. 228 Otterbein St--the first place we lived together.

Iiiiiigg I splutter, my clutter-aversion anxiety beginning to knot up my innards. What’s this doing here?

I did this, says Jeff, spreading out one of the rolls. I planned this, and drew it, and built it. Me and [cousin] Robin.

My knot unknots. My angst unangsts. I look at the drawing. A detailed rendering of a house--carefully measured, intricately marked, detailed features neatly sketched in. Look, Jeff says, I used to be able to do this stuff.

Yes, I say. You did do it. And it’s good. You pretty much designed and built the house we’re in right now too. Smile. Hug. The blueprints disappear later without my asking.

not much

My right thumb is bundled up in a band-aid like a little peasant char-woman in winter. Constant wrappage seems the only way to convince the tiny crack--born of cold, dry air--that it is, in fact, appropriate to heal. It may be healing. But it resembles the fissure it was closely enough that I’m reluctant to unwrap it yet. 2 more days maybe.

Here is my goal and job for now. Preparing. One of the necessities being to create as manageable, unconfusing, and clutter free house as possible under the circumstances. I’m happy to get rid of stuff. Contact me if you want stuff. Personally, I don’t want stuff.

We’ve had an ongoing discussion about the lyrics to A Whole New World, from Aladdin. I was sure--really really sure--that Aladdin says “shining shimmering splendor.” It only makes sense, after all, to follow up two adjectives with a noun if you want a well-rounded phrase. But Olivia--who should know, as it is on her iPod--insisted that he says “shining, shimmering, splendid.” I had to look it up. It is “splendid.” As Gabe pointed out based on a lyrical analysis--”If it said ‘splendor’ instead of ‘splendid’ then you’d have to change the next line--’Tell me princess, now when did you last let your heart decide’ to ‘tell me princess now when/or did you let your heart decide.’ Makes no sense Mom, now does it?” The kid is correct. When you’re wrong, you’re wrong.

Not Lyme

No, not Lyme. It was a nice thought though.

being amphibious

I wonder sometimes, if I allow myself to sink into this quiet world where overstimulation is to be avoided, and communication depends on a true ability to live in the moment...will I be there forever? Will that become my permanent world? But I trust that it is a groundless fear. I should be able to segue, like an amphibian living half in the water, half on land. Both worlds have their particular beauty and a healthy creature, designed for such, can interface with either.

At times I’ve thought about what I would do if I were in jail. Just a plain, dank, standard jail cell. Colorless. Not much, it would seem, to offer. What would I do? But most jails--at least around here--have a library, have ways to access learning, and have people to interact with. One can write, one can study. There is never nothing to do. Even if you’ve got no resource to draw on but the creativity of your own mind and a piece of chalk to scratch on the wall with, there are means to create in vivid color.

When you’re bummed, he’s bummed, and it soon becomes obvious that your entire support network is likewise bummed, it’s time to say, “Cool. We’re all bummed! Time to move on.”
People probably wonder how you can possibly live in hell. But to some people, bugs are hell. To others, shoveling snow is hell. To others, 95°F in the shade is hell. So you say, “It’s not hell. You just plan differently. And do things differently, at different times. And enjoy the heat. Ok?"

Just a normal month

This is a most interesting chunk of weeks. When we are home I’m trying to locate myself just ahead of, or just behind, the work crew who may be doing anything from spackling the hall ceiling to applying window trim in a bedroom. While I’m completely accustomed to stepping over dropcloths or pneumatic nailers as a matter of daily routine, tripping over guys who barely know me hasn’t been a regular thing since a couple years ago.

It is also a time speckled liberally with unnerving visits to a stunning array of docs and diagnostic venues. Jeff’s default tendency to live in the moment is serving him well from the standpoint of his nerves, but mine are running a bit on edge as I can’t really turn off my mental map of the overall diagnostic schema and where it may be leading. The advantage to this coinciding with having contractors is that they usually park Jeff in, lessening the odds that he’ll duck out for a Wendy’s chicken sandwich and I’ll lose him at a critical moment.

Hazel has picked now to exhibit a flare-up of pink belly. Maybe it’s just the season, or maybe it’s that she got into the other cats’ food which is causing her immune system to complain about the onslaught of proteins other than duck and pea, but whatever the case--she’s just going to have to hang in there, or drive me to desperation before she gets hauled in for a steroid injection. Freddi meanwhile, is getting more walks than usual, but otherwise having to tolerate the one finished room with a closeable door--Gabe’s bedroom. Had she not attempted to eat the contractors’ dog (twice her size) a few days ago, she might have more liberty, but you just can’t turn that terrier tenacity off with a switch.

Jeff’s old college mate, French, is in town for an ecumenical ministry conference in D.C. We got him from the airport to his hotel with a brief diner lunch yesterday, and will retrieve him for a two-night stay chez nous on Thursday before redelivering him to the airport. And in a way, this might be the perfect time for such a visit. Who could possibly present the expert hostess façade under present conditions? I’m sure he’ll be quite happy, once he’s dodged several stepladders en route to the room I’ll put him in, to join us for two days of meals away from what my friend Katherine has dubbed “topsy-turvy land.”

Sadly, I am inescapably low on lunchbox whatnots, and must fit a trip to the grocery store in somewhere today. That will be after today’s doctor thing.

wintry mix

Gabe is showing Jeff a card trick. He shuffles, and says “tell me when to stop.” Jeff stares diligently at the flipping cards and says, “King of spades?” Gabe says “no, just tell me when to stop shuffling.”

There are some not-half-bad Whole Foods brand pizzas in the freezer. That’s what’s for dinner. I do not feel so ambitious as to cook something tonight. Even dessert. So the oven is preheating to 390° F. (What kind of a weird setting is 390°?)

Gabe says “watch closely and try to guess how I know which card to stop at.” Jeff stares intently. “You bent a corner back?” (Bravo, I think. That is in fact a trick I’ve known Gabe to use. But it’s not right this time.)

I will need to remember to go to the wine store tomorrow. Jeff keeps bringing home this stuff called “Black Box.” It is, in fact, housed within a box. But within the box is a plastic bag with an attached spigot with which you dispense the Chardonnay. It is not bad as wines for cheap people go, but it kind of somewhere between annoys and amuses me that the only way to dispense the last glass is to remove the plastic bag from the black box, unsquish it, snip a hole in it for good air flow, and dispense. Somehow I feel like I’m drinking wine from an IV bag. It is not sufficiently cheaper for me to tolerate that strange aesthetic. Tomorrow I’ll look for a nice cheap French bottle.

Tonight we got about .25 inches of snow. They’re calling for “wintry mix” later. (That should either be a form of Chex cereal based snack containing chestnuts, or a cd compilation featuring Christmas classics.) At any rate, the question remains: will the wintry mix delay school tomorrow morning? Will my intentions of getting Jeff to the new neurologist with plenty of time to spare be impeded by school shuttling concerns? Only Mr. Cold Miser knows.

Olivia calls to find out what’s for dinner, or more specifically, whether it’s something “good.” Whole Foods frozen pizzas do not qualify, so we negotiate as to whether I will subsidize her stopping at Ledo’s on the way home from work. I concede up to $5. Deal.

Jeff is standing next to my computer stool at the counter. In one hand he holds a glass of IV bag wine, and in the other, a slice of Whole Food pizza. I can’t help but note the vast departure in dining styles from my childhood of setting the table, and serving each plate with a well-balanced combination of salad, meat, vegetable, and starch. I think two things: One--It’s nice to re-experience that delicacy when we eat with my mom (except in that few of us eat the meat portion anymore,) and two--Don’t worry. I know better than to try this at home.

Wintry mix update: Liva calls. On the way home from work she hit an icy patch and does several total 360’s. Fortunately there were no cars around, and she pulled into a lot. I offer to hike 1/2 mile and drive her car home, but assure her that it should be ok if she does it slowly. I don’t know how slowly she went, but she’s home without incident in what seems like 3 minutes.

Time to become a wealthy Georgian.

There just aren’t enough people here. The girls are gone, and Liva, though technically in residence, is trying to condition me to her eventual flight by having a 24 hour social life. I do actually appreciate Gabe’s occasional card trick.

I had a sneaking suspicion about the calendula ointment on Jeff’s bathroom sink. I was not aware of any burns or rashes he needed to treat, yet there it was, conveniently stashed behind the cold water handle. I asked. He allowed as how the toothpaste has had a funny taste this week. I couldn’t help but note that the tube design bears no resemblance to Tom’s of Maine, nor have we ever tried a flavor that comes in a clear yellow gel, but you know, I guess they could make one.

Agua Clara is on the touchy cd player. For now. Once I shut a drawer over there a little too hard it will stop, protesting that its cd insertion door is OPEN. Silly thing. Years ago, Gabe made what is meant to be some sort of ball shaped vase in school, shiny with brown glaze. It is a useful wad of ceramic to place on top of the cd player's lid to fool it into thinking it’s closed, but it’s still a touchy thing, and reacts to the slightest bumps. Agua Clara is a Peruvian group. They were playing in Penn Station a couple weeks ago, and so pleased me in a mere 5 minutes that I bought their cd. Lots of hooty bamboo flute type instruments, with guitar and percussion.

This has been Pride and Prejudice immersion week. In addition to watching the ‘06 movie for the 4th time, I read the book, and watched the film once again with the director’s commentary running. Now I am very much wishing we had house guests, staying for 10 days, or 6 weeks or so, who would be keeping company with me in the drawing room where we’d play cards or engage in clever conversation. A prerequisite, of course, is that this whole fantasy would come with a cook and housekeepers. I do not require the fully outfitted guys who, one per chair, would push each diner’s chair in as we sit.

The Big Apple & some small worms

Our quick NYC get-away was, as usual, all in all a good thing. There is a remarkably endless array of places to eat. I really like places to eat, so it grieves me slightly to pick one in the sense that I must forego numerous others in the same neighborhood. Other times, other times.

Among the more discordant notes, there is nothing like a trip to exacerbate the noticeable neuropsychiatric deficits of chronic Lyme. Sometimes it means you fiddle around with your continental breakfast uncertain whether you need to pick up a fork, move your coffee cup, or get the muffin out of the way before you can eat your fruit. Your partner will almost certainly have to stop frequently, when walking in crowds, to make sure you haven’t lost sight of her, which you will do. A lot. You will not understand, or be able to keep track of, the day’s agenda even if your partner has discussed it with you several times. It is highly likely that if there are several blocks to go before you get to the subway stop (from which you will take a 30 minute ride across Queens to Forest Hills,) that you will forget that you haven’t done the subway part yet and ask a random stranger, in Greenwich Village, if he knows how to get to Forest Hills. This will chagrin your partner more than it does the random stranger who will merely look confused. It is also highly probable that, once on the subway, you may forget to sit down or grab the pole, and you will fall into the lap of yet another random stranger. Most random strangers, in my experience, are fairly good-humored.

The Hotel Gansevoort is a great place to stay if it entertains you to watch (from eight floors above) an endless processional of yellow taxis circling the block as they drop off and retrieve the hip in-crowd. I found it entertaining at midnight, and still so at 2 a.m. when my bladder called. By 7 a.m there was only a cab or two on the street, but there was a NY Times on our room door in a gray cloth bag.

The girls are all out. Somebody got Clunkola the Jeffmobile. I suspect it was Becca. It must be one of the pitfalls of middle child-dom. You get the yucky car. I feel strongly that I would like to go to bed tonight. Last night I got to feeling yucky on the train, and still did when we retrieved our car which was sadly low on fuel. We found a non-functioning BP station where Jeff failed to notice that he was not filling the car with gas while I discreetly barfed in the empty stretch of grass next door. Fortunately it was after midnight and no one was about. Fortunately no cop stopped to question whether I was fit to drive. Fortunately I was, as it had nothing to do with alcohol. And the next gas station had gas. But I just don’t think I can do the wait-up-for-the-girls thing tonight.

Today we discussed how there was no way for me to help Jeff with his activities of daily living without being--at various times--annoyingly solicitous, annoyingly impatient, or just plain annoying. He assured me that it is not a focused irritation he displays, and I must not take it personally. He is mad, he is frustrated, he is irked. But then, who wouldn’t be?

HNY

I do not, just because it’s New Year’s Day, have any particularly meaningful comments to make. The word observations, in this context, would mean pretty much the same thing as comments and I don’t have any good ones of those either, so I’ll make some stupid ones.

I really ought to go turn off the coffee pot so its little red light will stop reminding me to drink more. Even though it’s half-caf. Enough is enough.

This is the first New Year’s Eve in three years that I haven’t been hit by a surprise wave of melancholy while deciding whether to go to bed early or watch dumb tv. A distant friend in Scunthorpe sent me cheering words each of those times, and greatly appreciated those words were, but somehow I dodged the wave this year.

One apple pie does not go far in a house with Jeff and Gabe. If I’m going to bother, I may as well make two.

A kind and clever neighbor has a niece who lives in Paris. He responded to my expressed twinge of envy the following way: “The way I see it, you’ve got sky, you’ve got ground, you’ve got shelter and a warm bed pretty much anywhere you go, if you’re lucky.” Very true. Dandelions could be quite charming if all you’ve got is bougainvillea.

pink, and other, blindfolds

It can get old to point somebody in the direction of a spoon several times every morning. And, by the way, we keep bowls over there. Just where they’ve been for 15 years. The flip side is the unavoidable pathos of the situation. What I often want to do is bundle the guy into the car and take a trip. A road trip, a boat trip, an airplane trip. Let’s just go places so we can see interesting things and forget about what we can’t do. Matlock and Magnum can stay here.

Gabe is drifting around the house like a Roomba without the added usefulness. He is “heightening his senses” by wearing a blindfold made from a scrap of leftover pink fleece from Rachel’s sock-making project. He is heightening the sensitivity of everyone else’s frayed nerves. If only he could suck up dust and dog hair, but, alas, the result is more likely to be further entropy.

I can’t take the road trip. As is so often the case in life there is no way to perfectly balance the needs of everyone within one’s main sphere of influence. So I might as well welcome Matlock and Magnum as my allies, just as I used to uncomfortably rely on videos to occasionally squeeze in a bit of respite when children were small.

Rachel’s sock project is everywhere. It keeps trying to take over the kitchen counter, but I beat it back every twelve hours or so. I would think covering every square inch of the kitchen table would be adequate. I would think.

There’s a big question mark hovering, almost visibly, over the doxycycline bottle. Does it help? Is this valuable? Are we needlessly stirring things up? Should we declare a truce with the borrelia--maybe invite them to tea--maybe cede just the portion of the brain that controls...I don’t know...how to use a tv remote? Are there even any borrelia in there? We don’t know.

flotsam

Gabe is trying the free 10 day trial of World of Warcraft. One day into the trial period he says, with an analytical grimace, “On a scale of 1-5, I’d give it a 1.” After 2 days he says, “It’s fun as long as you’re a gnome or a zombie.”

Jeff wants to rent The Black Dahlia, but he’s suddenly dealing with a head full of spirochete exudate and wants a ride to Blockbuster. “Can I take a 30 minute nap first?” I say, trying to say it without waking up. I wake up soon anyway because my cell phone starts making barnyard noises. It’s 3:05. But it’s Saturday. So I don’t need to go pick Gabe up from his carpool. He’s downstairs, being a zombie. Or a gnome. Jeff meanwhile, has discovered that WETA is showing clips of old movies and he’s quite content without Black Dahlia.

I play Frost and Snow. It’s a hornpipe from a Christmas fiddle book, and I play it poorly. Fortunately, I play everything poorly so Frost and Snow won’t feel singled out.

Olivia is trying to balance her part time toy store job, school, and track. Today the the balance is tipping. I can gauge by how much noise she has to make to get ready for school. Today was noisy. I did, however, get Gabe out of the shower promptly enough that he could eat oatmeal. Well, something ate oatmeal. It looked like a large, animatronic green bedspread which would try to swallow the dog if I didn’t keep it in line.

We had a Dr. Aucott appointment today. Dr. Aucott thinks that maybe our results show enough glimmer of positivity that we push on in the same direction. The march of the pink pills continues...

Some whim overtook me tonight with great enough urgency that I made a pecan pie, crust and all. It’s in the oven. Sadly, it must cool or it will run all over the pan and plate. I may have gone to bed by then. Pie is a good breakfast.