Inspirational song: Getting to Know You (The King and I)
We have spent a solid 36 hours getting settled. Yesterday I cleaned out the refrigerator of everything that was past its expiration date or nearly used up. Today we took XS around every inch of Costco, negotiating how to keep a teenager well-fed in a strictly gluten-free house that she isn’t used to. I think we are set, so no one will feel deprived. The fridge is now stuffed, and I haven’t heard a peep of complaint. We are all good.
I was exhausted by the time we left Costco, and had just enough time to get back to town for my bonus massage. (I try to get a second one in a month, at a discounted rate, once a quarter if possible.) I was such a zombie, I didn’t even recognize that the person who walked in behind me was Slow Hand, the therapist I have been seeing monthly for two and a half years. We were in the room, 30 minutes later, before he said, “You held the door for me.” By the last half of a long massage, I had gone from tense and locked up to so relaxed that I slipped into alpha waves and dreamed three or four times. I’m so lucky to have someone who knows me so well that I can relax and let him work while I sleep, and I have absolute faith and trust that he’ll get the sore spots without being told.
XS and I have spent the evening at home. I offered to drive her somewhere, but most of her friends are still out of town for spring break. We just sat around and talked, about anything and everything. I repeated what I told her before, that I have few demands of her. She’s a teenager on what could be the best, most meaningful year of her youth. Her job is to study and learn, and as my grandmother’s mentor would have said, there are more places in this world to learn than inside a school building. She needs to explore and have the freedom to do so. My job is to provide that, plus the safe home base to explore from.
(No pictures today. I tried to take a photo of the new rock chip on my car windshield on the way to Costco, but it looked like a blurry airplane in the picture. I was too involved with other stuff for photos.)
Friday, March 30, 2018
Thursday, March 29, 2018
A Whole New World
Inspirational song: Zomby Woof (Frank Zappa)
Anybody's whole life change in a day? Anyone? Mine did. And I'm over-the-moon happy about it.
As promised, the Rotary foreign exchange student, hereafter known as XS, moved in first thing this morning. Well, nearly first thing. First we had to clean up the shattered glass that Harvey spread over every inch of the kitchen, because I so foolishly left a pint glass with a few ounces of water on the counter by the stove, and he had to stick his paws in it and tip it over, onto the tile floor. But after that, while I was still panicking, trying to clear out space in the under-bed storage and in the closet of the guest room that XS is taking, her previous host mom brought her here.
I've spent the day showing her where things are, and assuring her over and over that we are the most casual, laid-back, non-judgemental people she could possibly hope to live with. Her bedtime hours are her own choice, her television viewing is also up to her, and she's allowed to have overnight guests as she pleases. Her last host family had tween daughters who had to go to bed early, and the house was significantly more sedate than this one. When I first suggested she move in, I warned her we were boisterous and silly, and so far we have proven to be so. Early estimates show that she appreciates the freedom to be a loud teenager, and she's looking forward to her time here.
We went shopping for the few things I didn't have on hand for her arrival, like a laundry basket specifically for her use, and snack foods that meet her tastes to take to school. Luckily she was on spring break, so she has time to get settled, unpack, restock, and rest. I made her a cheat sheet with everyone's name on it, listing our kids, friends, and pets names--all the way down to the lizards. I may add to as she meets extended family, like my in-laws who have graciously opened the Easter dinner invitation to include her.
She was a little worn out from the move and new surroundings, so when it came time for us to do our usual Thursday game group, we played next door, and let her wind down with a simple dinner and quiet time. While we were fighting zombie wolves in D&D, she was taking a warm bath and getting acquainted with the cats here. I hope she feels like one of the family very soon, and starts treating my home as her own. As far as I am concerned, she *is* one of the family now. I told her, just like Horace Slughorn in the Harry Potter series, I collect people. She is one of mine now.
Anybody's whole life change in a day? Anyone? Mine did. And I'm over-the-moon happy about it.
As promised, the Rotary foreign exchange student, hereafter known as XS, moved in first thing this morning. Well, nearly first thing. First we had to clean up the shattered glass that Harvey spread over every inch of the kitchen, because I so foolishly left a pint glass with a few ounces of water on the counter by the stove, and he had to stick his paws in it and tip it over, onto the tile floor. But after that, while I was still panicking, trying to clear out space in the under-bed storage and in the closet of the guest room that XS is taking, her previous host mom brought her here.
I've spent the day showing her where things are, and assuring her over and over that we are the most casual, laid-back, non-judgemental people she could possibly hope to live with. Her bedtime hours are her own choice, her television viewing is also up to her, and she's allowed to have overnight guests as she pleases. Her last host family had tween daughters who had to go to bed early, and the house was significantly more sedate than this one. When I first suggested she move in, I warned her we were boisterous and silly, and so far we have proven to be so. Early estimates show that she appreciates the freedom to be a loud teenager, and she's looking forward to her time here.
We went shopping for the few things I didn't have on hand for her arrival, like a laundry basket specifically for her use, and snack foods that meet her tastes to take to school. Luckily she was on spring break, so she has time to get settled, unpack, restock, and rest. I made her a cheat sheet with everyone's name on it, listing our kids, friends, and pets names--all the way down to the lizards. I may add to as she meets extended family, like my in-laws who have graciously opened the Easter dinner invitation to include her.
She was a little worn out from the move and new surroundings, so when it came time for us to do our usual Thursday game group, we played next door, and let her wind down with a simple dinner and quiet time. While we were fighting zombie wolves in D&D, she was taking a warm bath and getting acquainted with the cats here. I hope she feels like one of the family very soon, and starts treating my home as her own. As far as I am concerned, she *is* one of the family now. I told her, just like Horace Slughorn in the Harry Potter series, I collect people. She is one of mine now.
For the record, a pint glass was not the only thing Harvey threw on the floor today. Good thing he did it before I mopped.
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
Any Minute Now
Inspirational song: People Get Ready (Rod Stewart and Jeff Beck)
As I begin to write, there are fewer than 12 hours left until the exchange student is due to arrive. I had my panic two days ago that I hadn't gotten notification that the paperwork was complete. This afternoon, I was reassured that all was ready and the lights were green. Her current host mom is bringing her here at around the time I usually have my first cup of coffee. I'm guessing that the timing is because that's when she needs to leave for work, not that she's anxious to let XS move along.
I tore my house apart last week, to clean out stuff, and I've only slowly been rewashing and reloading cabinets and sweeping and mopping and all the things I started in earnest. I needed to go faster, and I just didn't. (I did confess this to some extent yesterday when I talked about how late I am with everything.) The guest room is ready enough though. I had Mr S-P pull an antique dresser out of storage, and I put it in there yesterday. I need to pull a plastic underbed storage box full of shoes out of there, plus some fabric and my giant sewing box out of the way too. I'm going to let XS chose how to arrange things, so I'm going to call it done for now. I still have to tidy the dining room and kitchen first thing in the morning, before her last host mom sees the house.
I want to spruce up the front yard soon, but the weather is finally acting like springtime in the Rockies. It rained at lunchtime, and by mid afternoon, it was snowing giant sand-dollar-sized snowflakes. It was mesmerizing to watch. By the time we went next door for game night, it had all melted, but it was fun while it lasted. The mountains are going to be lovely in the morning. But it all means it's not yet time to start setting plants back outside. Maybe I'll focus on scrubbing the mud off of the patio instead, to feed my instincts to get this place ready for any Rotarians who might come over to take XS out for activities.
As I begin to write, there are fewer than 12 hours left until the exchange student is due to arrive. I had my panic two days ago that I hadn't gotten notification that the paperwork was complete. This afternoon, I was reassured that all was ready and the lights were green. Her current host mom is bringing her here at around the time I usually have my first cup of coffee. I'm guessing that the timing is because that's when she needs to leave for work, not that she's anxious to let XS move along.
I tore my house apart last week, to clean out stuff, and I've only slowly been rewashing and reloading cabinets and sweeping and mopping and all the things I started in earnest. I needed to go faster, and I just didn't. (I did confess this to some extent yesterday when I talked about how late I am with everything.) The guest room is ready enough though. I had Mr S-P pull an antique dresser out of storage, and I put it in there yesterday. I need to pull a plastic underbed storage box full of shoes out of there, plus some fabric and my giant sewing box out of the way too. I'm going to let XS chose how to arrange things, so I'm going to call it done for now. I still have to tidy the dining room and kitchen first thing in the morning, before her last host mom sees the house.
I want to spruce up the front yard soon, but the weather is finally acting like springtime in the Rockies. It rained at lunchtime, and by mid afternoon, it was snowing giant sand-dollar-sized snowflakes. It was mesmerizing to watch. By the time we went next door for game night, it had all melted, but it was fun while it lasted. The mountains are going to be lovely in the morning. But it all means it's not yet time to start setting plants back outside. Maybe I'll focus on scrubbing the mud off of the patio instead, to feed my instincts to get this place ready for any Rotarians who might come over to take XS out for activities.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
Late
Inspirational song: In the Evening (Led Zeppelin)
We still have no paperwork that says XS is officially allowed to move in here. We had been going by the tone everyone used (everyone who works in the youth exchange side of the club) when they talked to us about it. It sounds like it’s a done deal. But until the seal of approval is on this situation, I am not going to move her in. The worst I can imagine is she gets here for like two nights, just starts to settle, and then we find there’s a hitch. It feels like the approval is late, but in all honesty, we just wanted to get a jump on things and get XS here during spring break, before the Final Four started.
I’m the last person to criticize anyone about being behind the power curve. I’m hopelessly so. I took on way too many projects and jobs, and I’ve been underwater on it all since December at least. I’m always weeks behind on the club newsletters (and have been begging for months for someone to take this weekly obligation off my hands.) I find that the stress from that steals all of my spoons, and I am barely working, barely completing commissions, and even when projects are done, I’m not releasing them to the people they are to belong to. How’s this for late: there are four Christmas gifts sitting completed in my room with me at this very moment. One of them is for m daughter who lives a mile away, who comes over several times a week, and has stood right next to it multiple times in the last month alone. I just fail to speak up when she is here. I need a personal assistant to organize my life (and make the post office runs I have failed to do most of my adult life.)
The vet called at 8:30 this evening. She apologized for calling so late at night, but she was going over her records and realized no one had given me Athena’s blood test results. I assured her I didn’t mind an after hours call, and was relieved to learn that her tests were unremarkable. Everything is just fine, so we can proceed with the tooth extraction. One welcome bit of good news!
Finally, something to file under Better Late Than Never: Rabbit has been grumpy with all of the other cats for years, ever since Cricket got suddenly sick and rejected her before she died. She used to be such a nurturing cat. She still has her moments with Harvey, when he is being an obnoxious teenager (which is admittedly very often). Two nights in a row now, when he has come to bed, she has allowed him to snuggle up next to her, and she groomed his head. It's too early yet to call it a pattern, but it gives me hope. I'm glad that this late in her life, she finally let someone else in to care for her.
We still have no paperwork that says XS is officially allowed to move in here. We had been going by the tone everyone used (everyone who works in the youth exchange side of the club) when they talked to us about it. It sounds like it’s a done deal. But until the seal of approval is on this situation, I am not going to move her in. The worst I can imagine is she gets here for like two nights, just starts to settle, and then we find there’s a hitch. It feels like the approval is late, but in all honesty, we just wanted to get a jump on things and get XS here during spring break, before the Final Four started.
I’m the last person to criticize anyone about being behind the power curve. I’m hopelessly so. I took on way too many projects and jobs, and I’ve been underwater on it all since December at least. I’m always weeks behind on the club newsletters (and have been begging for months for someone to take this weekly obligation off my hands.) I find that the stress from that steals all of my spoons, and I am barely working, barely completing commissions, and even when projects are done, I’m not releasing them to the people they are to belong to. How’s this for late: there are four Christmas gifts sitting completed in my room with me at this very moment. One of them is for m daughter who lives a mile away, who comes over several times a week, and has stood right next to it multiple times in the last month alone. I just fail to speak up when she is here. I need a personal assistant to organize my life (and make the post office runs I have failed to do most of my adult life.)
The vet called at 8:30 this evening. She apologized for calling so late at night, but she was going over her records and realized no one had given me Athena’s blood test results. I assured her I didn’t mind an after hours call, and was relieved to learn that her tests were unremarkable. Everything is just fine, so we can proceed with the tooth extraction. One welcome bit of good news!
Finally, something to file under Better Late Than Never: Rabbit has been grumpy with all of the other cats for years, ever since Cricket got suddenly sick and rejected her before she died. She used to be such a nurturing cat. She still has her moments with Harvey, when he is being an obnoxious teenager (which is admittedly very often). Two nights in a row now, when he has come to bed, she has allowed him to snuggle up next to her, and she groomed his head. It's too early yet to call it a pattern, but it gives me hope. I'm glad that this late in her life, she finally let someone else in to care for her.
Monday, March 26, 2018
Mouf
Inspirational song: Dentist! (Little Shop of Horrors)
Athena has bad breath. "Is this significant?" You must be wondering. Yes. It is. I've noticed this for weeks now, but with Bump in decline and the Mr monopolizing my car, I just couldn't follow through with my instincts that this was serious, and needed veterinary attention. Finally today, she got to go in and meet the new cat-specific vet our local clinic has just hired. I don't take her into the clinic often. In fact, I've dragged my feet about getting her in since we moved here. She had her 3-year vaccinations right before we left Charleston, and she more than any of the other members of the Pride gets particularly traumatized by vet visits. It's entirely because of her kittenhood, of the twice-weekly trips back to the shelter while she was still a foster kitten, getting her whole body dipped in stinky sulphurous lime when just the tip of her tail had ringworm. She does not like medical settings.
We had to go in today, though. Letting her mouth just get worse was not an option. She wasn't going to let me inspect it, so I didn't know what was going on in there. Just as in her entire 5-year lifetime I have cut exactly one claw, one time, she doesn't let me mess with her paws, ears, or mouth. Not ever. I was totally honest with the vet crew that I did not know how Athena would react. When they asked whether she would bite, I had to say "Maybe?" But by the time we had driven the few blocks from our house to the clinic, she had gone from howling pitifully in the carrier to shutting down. She was totally silent by the time we walked in the door, and she stayed that way through the entire appointment. She even chose to stay in the carrier for the first several minutes we were in the room, even though I opened the escape hatch. Eventually she hopped out and explored the room.
The new doc had an amazingly calm bearing, and a magically soft touch with Athena. Sure, she spritzed a little Feliway on the towel on the table when she first arrived, but not even that could account for how Athena just settled down and quietly let the doc pet her and look at her teeth. Sure enough, the first molar on the lower right has dental disease. She saw gum rescission, and on the second look, she said she thought she saw an abscess. They worked up an estimate for how much it is going to cost ([choke] - a lot), but I didn't argue it. One bad tooth can lead to a whole lot of other problems, and quickly. This must explain why she got cranky and bitey again over the winter. It wasn't just the arrival of Harvey.
They drew blood today, and I have to wait until the results are in to make the appointment to extract the tooth. I will have time over the next week or two to work on spoiling her rotten ahead of time so she feels secure enough to know that I'm not just abandoning her when I take her to get her tooth pulled. And then I will spend a year making it up to her. Eventually she will realize how much better she feels, and maybe then she'll forgive me.
Athena has bad breath. "Is this significant?" You must be wondering. Yes. It is. I've noticed this for weeks now, but with Bump in decline and the Mr monopolizing my car, I just couldn't follow through with my instincts that this was serious, and needed veterinary attention. Finally today, she got to go in and meet the new cat-specific vet our local clinic has just hired. I don't take her into the clinic often. In fact, I've dragged my feet about getting her in since we moved here. She had her 3-year vaccinations right before we left Charleston, and she more than any of the other members of the Pride gets particularly traumatized by vet visits. It's entirely because of her kittenhood, of the twice-weekly trips back to the shelter while she was still a foster kitten, getting her whole body dipped in stinky sulphurous lime when just the tip of her tail had ringworm. She does not like medical settings.
We had to go in today, though. Letting her mouth just get worse was not an option. She wasn't going to let me inspect it, so I didn't know what was going on in there. Just as in her entire 5-year lifetime I have cut exactly one claw, one time, she doesn't let me mess with her paws, ears, or mouth. Not ever. I was totally honest with the vet crew that I did not know how Athena would react. When they asked whether she would bite, I had to say "Maybe?" But by the time we had driven the few blocks from our house to the clinic, she had gone from howling pitifully in the carrier to shutting down. She was totally silent by the time we walked in the door, and she stayed that way through the entire appointment. She even chose to stay in the carrier for the first several minutes we were in the room, even though I opened the escape hatch. Eventually she hopped out and explored the room.
The new doc had an amazingly calm bearing, and a magically soft touch with Athena. Sure, she spritzed a little Feliway on the towel on the table when she first arrived, but not even that could account for how Athena just settled down and quietly let the doc pet her and look at her teeth. Sure enough, the first molar on the lower right has dental disease. She saw gum rescission, and on the second look, she said she thought she saw an abscess. They worked up an estimate for how much it is going to cost ([choke] - a lot), but I didn't argue it. One bad tooth can lead to a whole lot of other problems, and quickly. This must explain why she got cranky and bitey again over the winter. It wasn't just the arrival of Harvey.
They drew blood today, and I have to wait until the results are in to make the appointment to extract the tooth. I will have time over the next week or two to work on spoiling her rotten ahead of time so she feels secure enough to know that I'm not just abandoning her when I take her to get her tooth pulled. And then I will spend a year making it up to her. Eventually she will realize how much better she feels, and maybe then she'll forgive me.
Sunday, March 25, 2018
Selfish
Inspirational Song: Riders on the Storm (The Doors)
I’m fighting it tonight. It has been a big, cool, busy weekend, with lots of work and play (mostly the former), but I’m conflicted about sharing all that much of it. I spent time with old and new friends, and I sort of feel like keeping all the details to myself. I did real estate stuff, and the same applies. I watched the same 60 Minutes episode everyone else did, and I want to digest it before I declare that it is everything or nothing. (Currently I believe it was neither extreme.) But mostly I just want a night to myself to reflect, and to play games while I wait for the heartburn to ease off enough to sleep.
My cozy Smith Park West is starting to wake up some more. Now the dozens of purple crocuses have been joined by a few early daffodil blooms. In a few days I’ll be dancing on air when my lilacs bud out. I can even see the progress on the nectarine from the distance of my kitchen window. But tomorrow rain is supposed to turn back into snow. I’m not complaining. April showers may bring May flowers, but around here March snow storms can reduce June wildfires, and I’m more interested in that right now. I'm looking forward to getting out with a camera so that I can show off later, but for now, I'm okay with keeping it minimal.
(I considered this expert level trolling from the local station a few minutes before 60 Minutes aired.)
I’m fighting it tonight. It has been a big, cool, busy weekend, with lots of work and play (mostly the former), but I’m conflicted about sharing all that much of it. I spent time with old and new friends, and I sort of feel like keeping all the details to myself. I did real estate stuff, and the same applies. I watched the same 60 Minutes episode everyone else did, and I want to digest it before I declare that it is everything or nothing. (Currently I believe it was neither extreme.) But mostly I just want a night to myself to reflect, and to play games while I wait for the heartburn to ease off enough to sleep.
My cozy Smith Park West is starting to wake up some more. Now the dozens of purple crocuses have been joined by a few early daffodil blooms. In a few days I’ll be dancing on air when my lilacs bud out. I can even see the progress on the nectarine from the distance of my kitchen window. But tomorrow rain is supposed to turn back into snow. I’m not complaining. April showers may bring May flowers, but around here March snow storms can reduce June wildfires, and I’m more interested in that right now. I'm looking forward to getting out with a camera so that I can show off later, but for now, I'm okay with keeping it minimal.
Saturday, March 24, 2018
Forces of Change
Inspirational song: Hope for the Future (Marillion)
Today was pivotal. Sea change came today. I believe it. I welcome it. And millions of people around the country and around the world felt it too. The current crop of teenagers have grown up in a world my generation could never have imagined. The pressures on them are nothing like I experienced. The maturity it takes to deal with the stresses and the fears and the actual dangers of the world as it is now is immense. When these kids speak, we owe it to them to listen. The future is speaking to us, and it is eloquent and it is passionate. It means business. Thank goodness they are speaking up.
I didn't get to go to any marches today. If my business had been concluded by 2 or so, I might have tried. Instead, we didn't conclude our meeting until after 4, and the group of women who carpooled with me and I left before the final gavel came down. It is surprising how exhausting it is to sit still, listen, and raise your hand every fifteen minutes or so. It makes a difference that we had to leave at around 6:30 this morning in order to make it to county assembly in time to land a parking place at Boulder High School. Enough people heeded the warnings about limited parking, and carpooled, rode the bus, or biked, so that we had no trouble finding a spot in the school lot. It was noisy and messy and crowded on the route to checking in. Candidates and their reps formed a long reception line inside and out. I picked up literature, signs, buttons, stickers, pens, and snacks before I ever made it to the back of the cafeteria where the check-in tables sat. I covered myself in flair in a haphazard pattern, some from candidates I wholeheartedly supported, some I barely recognized, and even some who were running for districts other than my own.
Our congressional district was the smaller of the two, so we were directed up to the balcony, and most of my pictures of speakers were from that perspective. I would say that something north of half of the candidates who spoke to us were electrifying, and the same could be said for a handful of the surrogates. There are many who I hope will stay involved in government in the future. I was reminded how unruly my party tends to be. There were so many hecklers, shouted corrections, rule weasels, and people who must have been hall monitors as children. Democracy can be a blood sport. These things matter, and I feel a civic duty to participate in the background process.
A final note. After I typed that last period, while I watched video from the March for Our Lives against gun violence, waiting for inspiration on how to conclude, I heard two gun shots, several seconds apart. On the other side of the park from me, there's a rougher neighborhood, where most of these noises originate. I don't even flinch anymore on the days I can tell it's not fireworks. I don't like that this is so common that I don't even sit up straighter anymore, much less look out the front windows and expect to see someone investigating it. I don't want this level of sangfroid. I need to find my sense of outrage. I don't know whether today's 800,000 people on the National Mall, or closer to home the 1000 people downtown are able to make a difference on gun issues. For the first time in years, I have hope that they can maintain their committments
Today was pivotal. Sea change came today. I believe it. I welcome it. And millions of people around the country and around the world felt it too. The current crop of teenagers have grown up in a world my generation could never have imagined. The pressures on them are nothing like I experienced. The maturity it takes to deal with the stresses and the fears and the actual dangers of the world as it is now is immense. When these kids speak, we owe it to them to listen. The future is speaking to us, and it is eloquent and it is passionate. It means business. Thank goodness they are speaking up.
I didn't get to go to any marches today. If my business had been concluded by 2 or so, I might have tried. Instead, we didn't conclude our meeting until after 4, and the group of women who carpooled with me and I left before the final gavel came down. It is surprising how exhausting it is to sit still, listen, and raise your hand every fifteen minutes or so. It makes a difference that we had to leave at around 6:30 this morning in order to make it to county assembly in time to land a parking place at Boulder High School. Enough people heeded the warnings about limited parking, and carpooled, rode the bus, or biked, so that we had no trouble finding a spot in the school lot. It was noisy and messy and crowded on the route to checking in. Candidates and their reps formed a long reception line inside and out. I picked up literature, signs, buttons, stickers, pens, and snacks before I ever made it to the back of the cafeteria where the check-in tables sat. I covered myself in flair in a haphazard pattern, some from candidates I wholeheartedly supported, some I barely recognized, and even some who were running for districts other than my own.
Our congressional district was the smaller of the two, so we were directed up to the balcony, and most of my pictures of speakers were from that perspective. I would say that something north of half of the candidates who spoke to us were electrifying, and the same could be said for a handful of the surrogates. There are many who I hope will stay involved in government in the future. I was reminded how unruly my party tends to be. There were so many hecklers, shouted corrections, rule weasels, and people who must have been hall monitors as children. Democracy can be a blood sport. These things matter, and I feel a civic duty to participate in the background process.
A final note. After I typed that last period, while I watched video from the March for Our Lives against gun violence, waiting for inspiration on how to conclude, I heard two gun shots, several seconds apart. On the other side of the park from me, there's a rougher neighborhood, where most of these noises originate. I don't even flinch anymore on the days I can tell it's not fireworks. I don't like that this is so common that I don't even sit up straighter anymore, much less look out the front windows and expect to see someone investigating it. I don't want this level of sangfroid. I need to find my sense of outrage. I don't know whether today's 800,000 people on the National Mall, or closer to home the 1000 people downtown are able to make a difference on gun issues. For the first time in years, I have hope that they can maintain their committments
Friday, March 23, 2018
Farewell, My Love
Inspirational song: Humoresque (Jack White)
Thursday morning, I sat outside in the chilly air, waiting for the fire to reach the right temperature to smoke a tri-tip. While I sat there, My Little Red-Headed Dog came up and looked right into my eyes. His body completely lacked a fat layer by then, thanks to the tumor on his pancreas that squeezed his duodenum nearly closed, causing him to throw up most of what he ate for the last six months. He had perked up for a few weeks while we were feeding him prednisone-spiked cheese bites, pureed chicken and beef, rice, and scrambled eggs. But the in the last week he lost interest in eating again, and the smell of him losing control of his bladder daily alerted us to an infection. He went on antibiotics a few days ago, but they didn't seem to help in time. When he looked at me Thursday morning, there was a different question in his eyes. I patted him on his thin, pointed head (where the contours of his skull were so painfully visible), and I asked him something I didn't expect to say. I asked him if he was frightened. I told him not to be. He was loved and appreciated, and it was going to be okay. He pressed his face against my leg. I think between us, we passed a milestone right then. He accepted that his job was done.
We were driving down Rte 66 in Barstow, California, on our way to the Home Depot, when we swerved around a dog who had been hit, lying half in the center turn lane, half in our lane. Right as we were about to pass him, he picked his head up, and Mr Smith realized that he was not dead, merely injured. He slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding being rear-ended by the car behind us. He jumped out, and scooped up the little red-headed dog and put him in the back seat of my Chrysler. We didn't live in Barstow, but rather on the army post near there, so we didn't know the lay of the land well. We drove around, trying to find an emergency vet. These were the days before we had smart phones (this was early March, 2007, I believe). I cooed soothing words to the dog, who was little more than a puppy, not knowing what sort of attitude he would have when he was fully awake. His eyes took a while to clear, and a drip of blood ran down from one nostril, but otherwise, he was not visibly in distress. He didn't shift in the seat, though. Eventually we learned there was no 24 hour vet in Barstow at the time, and were told to try Victorville, 40 miles from where we were at that point. Instead, we took him back home to Fort Irwin, and decided we would get him checked out in the morning. X-rays revealed that other than a tiny flange chipped off of his hip, he was okay on the inside.
I honestly believe that the way we were introduced, with him coming out of a haze of pain to find me murmuring love and reassurance to him was what sealed our bond. He and I had a connection I've never felt with any other dog before. I was scared of dogs for a large part of my youth, and barely tolerant of them as a young adult. But The Captain's Speed Bump, as the guys at the squadron called him, was an entirely different sort of dog for me. He was fiercely loyal, staying close to me when I needed him most. He stayed up late every night while I was working on my master's degree, having to answer class discussion questions online until midnight. He waited until I was done, and then he followed me down the hall to the bedroom. When other dogs I've known would have taken off like a shot when a gate or garage door was opened, he was content to wander around off-leash in the front yard or driveway, never wandering farther than the perimeter of our property. And in his golden years, once we had purchased the mining claim in the mountains, he was my guide up and down the hill. I was very slow learning the route where I couldn't see the path, and he would run ahead just a little, but stop before he was out of sight from me. He would come back to make sure I wasn't lost, and then run ahead again. He did this over and over, every time I went up to the claim.
I slept poorly last night. I woke around 3, and I was up for more than an hour, watching TV and reading Twitter. I tossed and turned after that, and was instantly awake when Mr S-P walked in at exactly 7 am to say, "Bumpy's dead."
Even knowing it was close, and knowing I had a great luxury of a long goodbye, it still felt so abrupt. I am so glad I took every opportunity, dozens of times a day, to tell him I loved him, and that he was the best dog of all time. I don't think I will ever meet one like him again. He was a once in a lifetime kind of love.
I am going to look through my files for pictures of him in better health, maybe four or five. I want to warn you that the very last picture was from this morning. He died right next to the garage door, and Mr S-P carried him out in to the yard and laid him on the ground. Murray and Elsa sniffed him, and I don't think Elsa was ready to absorb what happened. Murray reacted in a way I didn't expect. He stayed next to him for almost half an hour, not barking, not doing much of anything but keeping vigil -- like a dog version of sitting shiva, I suppose. I took a picture of it, and I'm going to include it at the end. Up to you whether you look.
Thursday morning, I sat outside in the chilly air, waiting for the fire to reach the right temperature to smoke a tri-tip. While I sat there, My Little Red-Headed Dog came up and looked right into my eyes. His body completely lacked a fat layer by then, thanks to the tumor on his pancreas that squeezed his duodenum nearly closed, causing him to throw up most of what he ate for the last six months. He had perked up for a few weeks while we were feeding him prednisone-spiked cheese bites, pureed chicken and beef, rice, and scrambled eggs. But the in the last week he lost interest in eating again, and the smell of him losing control of his bladder daily alerted us to an infection. He went on antibiotics a few days ago, but they didn't seem to help in time. When he looked at me Thursday morning, there was a different question in his eyes. I patted him on his thin, pointed head (where the contours of his skull were so painfully visible), and I asked him something I didn't expect to say. I asked him if he was frightened. I told him not to be. He was loved and appreciated, and it was going to be okay. He pressed his face against my leg. I think between us, we passed a milestone right then. He accepted that his job was done.
We were driving down Rte 66 in Barstow, California, on our way to the Home Depot, when we swerved around a dog who had been hit, lying half in the center turn lane, half in our lane. Right as we were about to pass him, he picked his head up, and Mr Smith realized that he was not dead, merely injured. He slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding being rear-ended by the car behind us. He jumped out, and scooped up the little red-headed dog and put him in the back seat of my Chrysler. We didn't live in Barstow, but rather on the army post near there, so we didn't know the lay of the land well. We drove around, trying to find an emergency vet. These were the days before we had smart phones (this was early March, 2007, I believe). I cooed soothing words to the dog, who was little more than a puppy, not knowing what sort of attitude he would have when he was fully awake. His eyes took a while to clear, and a drip of blood ran down from one nostril, but otherwise, he was not visibly in distress. He didn't shift in the seat, though. Eventually we learned there was no 24 hour vet in Barstow at the time, and were told to try Victorville, 40 miles from where we were at that point. Instead, we took him back home to Fort Irwin, and decided we would get him checked out in the morning. X-rays revealed that other than a tiny flange chipped off of his hip, he was okay on the inside.
I honestly believe that the way we were introduced, with him coming out of a haze of pain to find me murmuring love and reassurance to him was what sealed our bond. He and I had a connection I've never felt with any other dog before. I was scared of dogs for a large part of my youth, and barely tolerant of them as a young adult. But The Captain's Speed Bump, as the guys at the squadron called him, was an entirely different sort of dog for me. He was fiercely loyal, staying close to me when I needed him most. He stayed up late every night while I was working on my master's degree, having to answer class discussion questions online until midnight. He waited until I was done, and then he followed me down the hall to the bedroom. When other dogs I've known would have taken off like a shot when a gate or garage door was opened, he was content to wander around off-leash in the front yard or driveway, never wandering farther than the perimeter of our property. And in his golden years, once we had purchased the mining claim in the mountains, he was my guide up and down the hill. I was very slow learning the route where I couldn't see the path, and he would run ahead just a little, but stop before he was out of sight from me. He would come back to make sure I wasn't lost, and then run ahead again. He did this over and over, every time I went up to the claim.
I slept poorly last night. I woke around 3, and I was up for more than an hour, watching TV and reading Twitter. I tossed and turned after that, and was instantly awake when Mr S-P walked in at exactly 7 am to say, "Bumpy's dead."
Even knowing it was close, and knowing I had a great luxury of a long goodbye, it still felt so abrupt. I am so glad I took every opportunity, dozens of times a day, to tell him I loved him, and that he was the best dog of all time. I don't think I will ever meet one like him again. He was a once in a lifetime kind of love.
I am going to look through my files for pictures of him in better health, maybe four or five. I want to warn you that the very last picture was from this morning. He died right next to the garage door, and Mr S-P carried him out in to the yard and laid him on the ground. Murray and Elsa sniffed him, and I don't think Elsa was ready to absorb what happened. Murray reacted in a way I didn't expect. He stayed next to him for almost half an hour, not barking, not doing much of anything but keeping vigil -- like a dog version of sitting shiva, I suppose. I took a picture of it, and I'm going to include it at the end. Up to you whether you look.
Thursday, March 22, 2018
Relationship Goals
Inspirational song: That's What Friends Are For (Dionne Warwick)
I'm a simple woman in some respects. There are a few really easy ways to make me happy. Let me play with cats. Let me stay at home, off my feet, and sit and watch a movie with me. I really like that one. Join me for a meal, and be cool with my dietary restrictions. All of these little things bring me joy. So it should come as no surprise that when we were choosing our forever house, I had one really important wish, that would thrill me to my very core. I wanted a neighbor who was so comfortable with me/us that he or she (or both) would be able to casually walk into my house with barely a knock, and who was equally blase about my presence that they allowed me similar freedom to enter their home. When we moved here, on the very same day that our neighbor closed on his home, I had hopes that as cohorts, we would have something in common. When the single man introduced himself, and shared the detail that his favorite things to do most weekends were to brew beer and smoke meat, I immediately knew that he and Mr S-P had a good chance of being friends. He and I got to know each other a little while we built a privacy fence in place of chain link, and soon thereafter, we watched a little football together that first autumn, where we started to bond. He stuck with me during my year of hell in 2016. And when I went ahead and paid for Sunday Ticket that fall, he came over frequently to watch Kansas City football with me. (We still laugh that Athena had started to be friends with him until that first really amazing touchdown, when he jumped up and yelled so loudly that she didn't trust him again for a year.)
We exchanged keys years ago. He has been over to take care of my cats and dogs as needed, and I have become Barley's Auntie Anne. I'm not sure when the dream was fully realized, but at the very latest by last fall, he started coming in after a quick knock. I do the same at his house, like last week when he was painting his office and his music was turned up loud. On those occasions I try to speak loudly to Barley so he has a heads up that I'm in his space. A few days before that, he showed up to a scheduled meeting just slightly early, while I was obtaining laundry from the top of the dryer. I called out, "Um, you don't want to be here yet. I'm putting on leggings in the kitchen, and other than that, I'm only wearing a towel that keeps falling open." That's the only time in a year that I had to shoo him out of the house, even briefly.
Tonight was D&D at his house. As per usual, I went over in soft clothes and house slippers. I went back and forth a handful of times, so that I could keep my dinner gluten free. It's so natural to me now, wandering between the houses twice a week, sharing food and booze. The rest of the gang who come over those nights know our two houses as well as their own. When I don't feel like walking back for a third or fourth trip, I can count on any one of them to know exactly where to find what we need. We have long since passed the "can I borrow a cup of sugar" phase. This is all I ever wanted, and I hope it lasts a long, long time.
One thing that was less than ideal: we started smoking tri-tip for tonight's dinner at 9 this morning. We were in the back yard, with all the dogs and a couple of the cats. The neighbors across the alley out back are people I have never spoken to. The wife showed up calling through the fence, asking what the smoke was, worried that our yard had caught fire. She was just trying to be neighborly, I'm sure. But all three dogs went nuts, and I couldn't understand anything, and I really wasn't sure she was speaking to me. I got suddenly shy and didn't run over to open the gate to explain what was happening. The Mr did, after a minute, but I chickened out. Maybe later I can make it up and build a bridge across the back fences as well. I just failed today. (Since it was D&D night, let's just say I rolled a natural 1.)
I'm a simple woman in some respects. There are a few really easy ways to make me happy. Let me play with cats. Let me stay at home, off my feet, and sit and watch a movie with me. I really like that one. Join me for a meal, and be cool with my dietary restrictions. All of these little things bring me joy. So it should come as no surprise that when we were choosing our forever house, I had one really important wish, that would thrill me to my very core. I wanted a neighbor who was so comfortable with me/us that he or she (or both) would be able to casually walk into my house with barely a knock, and who was equally blase about my presence that they allowed me similar freedom to enter their home. When we moved here, on the very same day that our neighbor closed on his home, I had hopes that as cohorts, we would have something in common. When the single man introduced himself, and shared the detail that his favorite things to do most weekends were to brew beer and smoke meat, I immediately knew that he and Mr S-P had a good chance of being friends. He and I got to know each other a little while we built a privacy fence in place of chain link, and soon thereafter, we watched a little football together that first autumn, where we started to bond. He stuck with me during my year of hell in 2016. And when I went ahead and paid for Sunday Ticket that fall, he came over frequently to watch Kansas City football with me. (We still laugh that Athena had started to be friends with him until that first really amazing touchdown, when he jumped up and yelled so loudly that she didn't trust him again for a year.)
We exchanged keys years ago. He has been over to take care of my cats and dogs as needed, and I have become Barley's Auntie Anne. I'm not sure when the dream was fully realized, but at the very latest by last fall, he started coming in after a quick knock. I do the same at his house, like last week when he was painting his office and his music was turned up loud. On those occasions I try to speak loudly to Barley so he has a heads up that I'm in his space. A few days before that, he showed up to a scheduled meeting just slightly early, while I was obtaining laundry from the top of the dryer. I called out, "Um, you don't want to be here yet. I'm putting on leggings in the kitchen, and other than that, I'm only wearing a towel that keeps falling open." That's the only time in a year that I had to shoo him out of the house, even briefly.
Tonight was D&D at his house. As per usual, I went over in soft clothes and house slippers. I went back and forth a handful of times, so that I could keep my dinner gluten free. It's so natural to me now, wandering between the houses twice a week, sharing food and booze. The rest of the gang who come over those nights know our two houses as well as their own. When I don't feel like walking back for a third or fourth trip, I can count on any one of them to know exactly where to find what we need. We have long since passed the "can I borrow a cup of sugar" phase. This is all I ever wanted, and I hope it lasts a long, long time.
One thing that was less than ideal: we started smoking tri-tip for tonight's dinner at 9 this morning. We were in the back yard, with all the dogs and a couple of the cats. The neighbors across the alley out back are people I have never spoken to. The wife showed up calling through the fence, asking what the smoke was, worried that our yard had caught fire. She was just trying to be neighborly, I'm sure. But all three dogs went nuts, and I couldn't understand anything, and I really wasn't sure she was speaking to me. I got suddenly shy and didn't run over to open the gate to explain what was happening. The Mr did, after a minute, but I chickened out. Maybe later I can make it up and build a bridge across the back fences as well. I just failed today. (Since it was D&D night, let's just say I rolled a natural 1.)
Wednesday, March 21, 2018
Panic
Inspirational song: Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me (Warren Zevon)
Something needs to change the trajectory of this week. Each thing that goes wrong feels like it is making me increasingly more freaked out. I have to change things before I end up in surgery or in jail by this weekend.
I thought I had done the worst thing a modern, first-world person can do. I came back from the Rotary social and could not find my phone. I dumped the contents of my purse, patted every pocket, went out to the car I'd borrowed from my daughter, and could not find it. I went back to the bar and talked to the Rotarians who were still there, and to the bartenders and waitresses, and no joy. I was nauseated and panicked. Mr S-P tried calling it while we were searching the car, but I keep it on vibrate, so I didn't hear anything. So he called the carrier and suspended service to the phone while we decided what to do. I had changed purses on Monday, and after almost an hour of frantic searching, I said, you know, there are pockets I don't use on this purse. Let me see if it's in one of them. It was. And it was a brick, thanks to the call the Mr had just made. So he called to reactivate it. Do you know it takes significantly longer for them to turn a phone on than it does to turn it off? I mean significantly. He called and pushed buttons and then talked to a human and then got put on hold for an extended period of time, and eventually the call disconnected. I kept attempting to send texts or call on the phone, and it refused to play. So I called customer service from my phone (the only call it could make), and went through the same dance. After forty-five minutes of negotiating, between us, we got it to function again. It was agonizing. Although it was funny when the customer service rep told me to see whether it would send a text, and I did. Then he said, "see whether you can make a call." "Um," I said, "How do I do that while I'm still on the line with you?" "Oh, right."
My daughter was so kind to loan me her car while she was at work, so that I could make it to the social and chat with a candidate for the state house who is also in our Rotary chapter. Hours earlier, the Mr had wandered off on foot for meds for Bump (who is continuing to do poorly, although he keeps trying to hang in as long as possible), and then he went down to the Ford dealer to check on the prognosis for my car. He said they had the a new component for the brain, the one that keeps forgetting how to shift gears and has been replaced twice and reset twice. They need to test drive it and see whether they have to put a new clutch in ... again. I have lost track whether this is the second or third clutch. I just can't bear to research it. By the time I got home from acquiring my daughter's car and running through Target once, there was a new white car sitting in my driveway, and he was just climbing out of it. I don't know why it feels so much bigger inside than mine. Maybe they increased the cabin size in the version that came along four years after mine. Maybe it's because it's a sedan not hatchback. Maybe it's because it has a tan interior instead of black. Whatever, it seems pretty good inside and out. I'm so relieved that he went ahead and got a good car, with a full warranty on it. Maybe this is the trajectory change we needed. I'll be happy with good news for a while.
Something needs to change the trajectory of this week. Each thing that goes wrong feels like it is making me increasingly more freaked out. I have to change things before I end up in surgery or in jail by this weekend.
I thought I had done the worst thing a modern, first-world person can do. I came back from the Rotary social and could not find my phone. I dumped the contents of my purse, patted every pocket, went out to the car I'd borrowed from my daughter, and could not find it. I went back to the bar and talked to the Rotarians who were still there, and to the bartenders and waitresses, and no joy. I was nauseated and panicked. Mr S-P tried calling it while we were searching the car, but I keep it on vibrate, so I didn't hear anything. So he called the carrier and suspended service to the phone while we decided what to do. I had changed purses on Monday, and after almost an hour of frantic searching, I said, you know, there are pockets I don't use on this purse. Let me see if it's in one of them. It was. And it was a brick, thanks to the call the Mr had just made. So he called to reactivate it. Do you know it takes significantly longer for them to turn a phone on than it does to turn it off? I mean significantly. He called and pushed buttons and then talked to a human and then got put on hold for an extended period of time, and eventually the call disconnected. I kept attempting to send texts or call on the phone, and it refused to play. So I called customer service from my phone (the only call it could make), and went through the same dance. After forty-five minutes of negotiating, between us, we got it to function again. It was agonizing. Although it was funny when the customer service rep told me to see whether it would send a text, and I did. Then he said, "see whether you can make a call." "Um," I said, "How do I do that while I'm still on the line with you?" "Oh, right."
My daughter was so kind to loan me her car while she was at work, so that I could make it to the social and chat with a candidate for the state house who is also in our Rotary chapter. Hours earlier, the Mr had wandered off on foot for meds for Bump (who is continuing to do poorly, although he keeps trying to hang in as long as possible), and then he went down to the Ford dealer to check on the prognosis for my car. He said they had the a new component for the brain, the one that keeps forgetting how to shift gears and has been replaced twice and reset twice. They need to test drive it and see whether they have to put a new clutch in ... again. I have lost track whether this is the second or third clutch. I just can't bear to research it. By the time I got home from acquiring my daughter's car and running through Target once, there was a new white car sitting in my driveway, and he was just climbing out of it. I don't know why it feels so much bigger inside than mine. Maybe they increased the cabin size in the version that came along four years after mine. Maybe it's because it's a sedan not hatchback. Maybe it's because it has a tan interior instead of black. Whatever, it seems pretty good inside and out. I'm so relieved that he went ahead and got a good car, with a full warranty on it. Maybe this is the trajectory change we needed. I'll be happy with good news for a while.
Tuesday, March 20, 2018
Five Times
Inspirational song: Baby, You Can Drive My Car (The Beatles)
This day did not go as planned. I got in my car, started to back out of the driveway, and everything went straight to hell right at that moment. When I pressed on the gas pedal to back into the street, the engine just revved weakly, and the car rolled backwards only as fast as the momentum from the downward slope of the driveway had built up in it. I looked down and saw the check engine light on. I put the car in drive, and it connected well enough to roll a full car length back up the driveway, and I tried the process again. Same result. On the second attempt, instead of going back into the driveway, I parked on the street, and ran inside, quite upset, and asked Mr S-P what happened to my car. He said it worked fine for him this morning, and looked at me like I was overreacting over what must surely be user error. (Which had the inevitable result of making me even more upset.)
Since he has been using it for the last month, he has put 4,000 miles on it. Considering in the five and a half years since I bought it, including driving it here from South Carolina, I have only ever put 55,000 miles on it total before last month, this disturbed me greatly. I have been moving from gently suggesting to commenting frequently to demanding NOW IS THE TIME that he should purchase his own car for this venture. When I offered mine to use, I seriously did not intend for it to go on this long. It was to find out whether he wanted to do this for longer than a week, and if he did, then he could buy a car to dedicate to it. It must say something about my personality, but it seriously skeeves me out knowing how many strangers have been in my car, and when I drive it (those three or four times I've had access to it in a month) after it's been used as a Lyft car, I feel like the residue from every single body it carried is still in there. It's especially bad when the outside is dirty. It makes me feel like I am personally covered in road grime, and each of those three times I got it, I took it to the car wash--and I even used the wand to clean every inch, rather than riding through the automatic wash. I spend way too much of my time thinking about having it professionally detailed on the inside as soon as I get it back, to cleanse it thoroughly and turn it back into my own car. I don't need to feel the lingering vibes from a parade of random strangers in my personal space.
We had to have my car towed to the Ford dealer. Thankfully we keep roadside assistance on our insurance. Sadly, we don't have rental car reimbursement on it, at least for repairs. If I'd been in an accident, then yeah, but not for this. While we were there, Mr S-P test drove a 2017 version of the same car, although a base model, sedan not hatchback. I'd like him to go ahead and get it tomorrow. I have places I need to be, and if my car isn't ready, I'll take that one to county assembly Saturday, with the four women I've promised to drive. I am fine with him getting this generation of the car. If he were looking at one as old as mine, neither of us would want it. There were about four years where the Focus and Fiesta transmissions had such a fatal flaw built into them that there is a class action lawsuit that has resulted in a major settlement due to all of us owners, and depending on how many times we've had to have the same thing fixed, there's quite a bit of cash due back. This is my FIFTH time with the same problem. It was worked on twice in Charleston, and twice already since we moved back here. This makes five times that the transmission forgot how to shift. Two of the repairs involved a reset of the brain, and twice it was in the shop for more than a week to have major components repaired. They see this so often that they keep the components in stock. That's bad. That's really major. I enjoy driving this car, but I really hate having to leave it for repairs so often. I hope the new one (if he gets it) is free from this defect.
I was too upset about this ruining my day to take any pictures. Sorry. Maybe I'll have a picture tomorrow, if there is a new to us car to show off.
This day did not go as planned. I got in my car, started to back out of the driveway, and everything went straight to hell right at that moment. When I pressed on the gas pedal to back into the street, the engine just revved weakly, and the car rolled backwards only as fast as the momentum from the downward slope of the driveway had built up in it. I looked down and saw the check engine light on. I put the car in drive, and it connected well enough to roll a full car length back up the driveway, and I tried the process again. Same result. On the second attempt, instead of going back into the driveway, I parked on the street, and ran inside, quite upset, and asked Mr S-P what happened to my car. He said it worked fine for him this morning, and looked at me like I was overreacting over what must surely be user error. (Which had the inevitable result of making me even more upset.)
Since he has been using it for the last month, he has put 4,000 miles on it. Considering in the five and a half years since I bought it, including driving it here from South Carolina, I have only ever put 55,000 miles on it total before last month, this disturbed me greatly. I have been moving from gently suggesting to commenting frequently to demanding NOW IS THE TIME that he should purchase his own car for this venture. When I offered mine to use, I seriously did not intend for it to go on this long. It was to find out whether he wanted to do this for longer than a week, and if he did, then he could buy a car to dedicate to it. It must say something about my personality, but it seriously skeeves me out knowing how many strangers have been in my car, and when I drive it (those three or four times I've had access to it in a month) after it's been used as a Lyft car, I feel like the residue from every single body it carried is still in there. It's especially bad when the outside is dirty. It makes me feel like I am personally covered in road grime, and each of those three times I got it, I took it to the car wash--and I even used the wand to clean every inch, rather than riding through the automatic wash. I spend way too much of my time thinking about having it professionally detailed on the inside as soon as I get it back, to cleanse it thoroughly and turn it back into my own car. I don't need to feel the lingering vibes from a parade of random strangers in my personal space.
We had to have my car towed to the Ford dealer. Thankfully we keep roadside assistance on our insurance. Sadly, we don't have rental car reimbursement on it, at least for repairs. If I'd been in an accident, then yeah, but not for this. While we were there, Mr S-P test drove a 2017 version of the same car, although a base model, sedan not hatchback. I'd like him to go ahead and get it tomorrow. I have places I need to be, and if my car isn't ready, I'll take that one to county assembly Saturday, with the four women I've promised to drive. I am fine with him getting this generation of the car. If he were looking at one as old as mine, neither of us would want it. There were about four years where the Focus and Fiesta transmissions had such a fatal flaw built into them that there is a class action lawsuit that has resulted in a major settlement due to all of us owners, and depending on how many times we've had to have the same thing fixed, there's quite a bit of cash due back. This is my FIFTH time with the same problem. It was worked on twice in Charleston, and twice already since we moved back here. This makes five times that the transmission forgot how to shift. Two of the repairs involved a reset of the brain, and twice it was in the shop for more than a week to have major components repaired. They see this so often that they keep the components in stock. That's bad. That's really major. I enjoy driving this car, but I really hate having to leave it for repairs so often. I hope the new one (if he gets it) is free from this defect.
I was too upset about this ruining my day to take any pictures. Sorry. Maybe I'll have a picture tomorrow, if there is a new to us car to show off.
Made It Official
Inspirational song: Dog Days Are Over (Florence & the Machine)
This time last year, everyone was stressing out over the plans for our foster daughter's wedding. My job was making the dress, her grandmother in Alabama was prepping for hosting the rehearsal dinner and reception, and the bride and groom to be were losing sleep over everything else. It was expensive and unwieldy, but in the end, it came out all right. We all made it there, made it through the ceremony, and the first of our kids successfully married.
Our younger daughter, whose best friend is the one who became our foster daughter, watched this process and learned from it. She saw how the whole thing tied the couple in knots, trying to sort out all the details. She didn't want to put any of us through that, including herself. A couple of weeks ago, she and her fiance had a serious conversation. She had just been hired to a new job with good benefits, including health insurance. Their 7th dating anniversary was fast approaching. They decided, why not? There were plenty of solid economic reasons to go ahead and make it official. And to cave in to sentimentality, they would put it on their anniversary. With only a week and a half of warning, they told us they were going to get married. Naturally, a barrage of questions followed: who will perform a ceremony? Will you just go to the Justice of the Peace? Will you change your name? What will you wear? The answer to everything was: this is going to be easy. No ceremony. No name change. Just a cute dress from a regular store, not a big, elaborate meringue. (I spent hours with her shopping yesterday, and gave up after three stores. She wore me out, and took her foster sister to complete the search.)
At lunchtime today, we drove our daughter and her fiance to the County Clerk and Registrar in Boulder, choosing that city because it was where they started dating on this date seven years ago. They learned from the clerk that they were supposed to have filled out an online application first, but they were able to take care of that at computer stations set up for that purpose. They had the option of taking the license and reciting vows in front of a judge, cleric, or some other sort of dignitary, or they could just sign the certificate as parties of the contract. They chose the latter. They sat at a table, filled out the certificate exactly as directed in the example, and that was it. No flowers, no music, no giant credit card bill. We went to lunch, stopped for pictures with the snowstorm bearing down on the mountains behind them, and went home. And now two of my kids are married. The eldest may be a holdout for a long time to come.
I can't remember where it happened, either as soon as they got the certificate, or on the way to the restaurant, but my new son-in-law, who is a fan of the classics and studies Latin for fun, read a quote. He then translated it for us. I asked him to send me the text, to put in here. It seemed like the closest thing to a cermonial vow either of them made all day.
Si amor vincit omnia, Fortuna ipsa Venusque nobis gladium triumphi donarent.
(If love conquers all, Fortuna and Venus herself have given us the sword of triumph.)
This time last year, everyone was stressing out over the plans for our foster daughter's wedding. My job was making the dress, her grandmother in Alabama was prepping for hosting the rehearsal dinner and reception, and the bride and groom to be were losing sleep over everything else. It was expensive and unwieldy, but in the end, it came out all right. We all made it there, made it through the ceremony, and the first of our kids successfully married.
Our younger daughter, whose best friend is the one who became our foster daughter, watched this process and learned from it. She saw how the whole thing tied the couple in knots, trying to sort out all the details. She didn't want to put any of us through that, including herself. A couple of weeks ago, she and her fiance had a serious conversation. She had just been hired to a new job with good benefits, including health insurance. Their 7th dating anniversary was fast approaching. They decided, why not? There were plenty of solid economic reasons to go ahead and make it official. And to cave in to sentimentality, they would put it on their anniversary. With only a week and a half of warning, they told us they were going to get married. Naturally, a barrage of questions followed: who will perform a ceremony? Will you just go to the Justice of the Peace? Will you change your name? What will you wear? The answer to everything was: this is going to be easy. No ceremony. No name change. Just a cute dress from a regular store, not a big, elaborate meringue. (I spent hours with her shopping yesterday, and gave up after three stores. She wore me out, and took her foster sister to complete the search.)
At lunchtime today, we drove our daughter and her fiance to the County Clerk and Registrar in Boulder, choosing that city because it was where they started dating on this date seven years ago. They learned from the clerk that they were supposed to have filled out an online application first, but they were able to take care of that at computer stations set up for that purpose. They had the option of taking the license and reciting vows in front of a judge, cleric, or some other sort of dignitary, or they could just sign the certificate as parties of the contract. They chose the latter. They sat at a table, filled out the certificate exactly as directed in the example, and that was it. No flowers, no music, no giant credit card bill. We went to lunch, stopped for pictures with the snowstorm bearing down on the mountains behind them, and went home. And now two of my kids are married. The eldest may be a holdout for a long time to come.
I can't remember where it happened, either as soon as they got the certificate, or on the way to the restaurant, but my new son-in-law, who is a fan of the classics and studies Latin for fun, read a quote. He then translated it for us. I asked him to send me the text, to put in here. It seemed like the closest thing to a cermonial vow either of them made all day.
Si amor vincit omnia, Fortuna ipsa Venusque nobis gladium triumphi donarent.
(If love conquers all, Fortuna and Venus herself have given us the sword of triumph.)
Sunday, March 18, 2018
Twit
Inspirational song: For You (Manfred Mann's Earth Band)
Some random person on Twitter posted a question along the lines of "In your opinion, what's the best song cover that is better than the original." There were a few I agreed with, some I didn't. I lot of people referred to "Nothing Compares 2U," both the Prince and the Sinead O'Connor versions, to the point where I lost track of who was the original and who was the cover. A lot of Bob Dylan covers were mentioned, like "All Along the Watchtower," and "To Make You Feel My Love." (I didn't pipe in with my favorite BD cover, Hoyt Axton singing "Lay, Lady, Lay." I'm not sure it was better than the original; I just know it better from growing up hearing it played in my house more often.) I did nod approvingly when multiple people cited the Johnny Cash cover of "Hurt." I debated whether to offer my opinion, on this unknown person's thread, and quickly I got over my shyness to insist my favorite cover, that well outstrips the original, is "For You," the Manfred Mann version. Bruce Springsteen had a seriously wordy phase in the 1970s, where his songs were catchy as hell, but he tried to jam too much poetry into too short a space. Twice Manfred Mann came along and edited his songs to great benefit. Sure, the original poster on Twitter snapped back at someone who suggested that "Blinded By the Light" was better the second time around (and I agreed that MM made it easier to listen to), but as of now, I haven't had the sarcastic "Blocked and reported," joke he made to the people who uttered musical blasphemies. And now I'm stuck with that song in my head. It could be worse. It could be the original Springsteen.
I have started spending way more time on Twitter than anywhere else online. I'm more addicted to it than I ever was to Facebook. In fact, since we moved back to Colorado almost three years ago, I've really struggled with being on Facebook at all. Most days, the only time I go there is to post a link to this blog on the page I created, and then to copy it over to my personal page. I actually scroll through and read it maybe twice a week. They've talked a good game about the changes to the algorithms they made in the last few months, that are supposed to show you more of what your friends post and less of the sponsored crap. I have indeed seen more from friends I thought had fallen off the face of the earth since then. But I have not once been offered a post from groups I used to love like TinyKittens. (Though, thankfully, I still get my Marillion group posts, but it probably helps that I'm friends with the guy who started that one from way back.)
With all the negative press Facebook is getting, and the feeling I have that they really aren't sharing the links on my SFSP page as much anymore, I wonder where I should shift my focus. Years ago, when I first signed up on Twitter, it was because I thought maybe it would be a good place to share the blog posts, but when I put the links there, and allow it to cross-post to Facebook, the reach is usually fewer than 10 people, while the FB page usually reaches over a hundred. So instead, I have turned Twitter into my rabid political space, so that I keep that stuff off of here, and I am mindful to check Facebook every once in a while to make sure my cranky political retweets aren't shared there. (If you want to see that side of me and are on Twitter, my handle is @SmithParkCCL -- the "CCL" stands for "Crazy Cat Lady," but I haven't put much about my felines there in months.) I finally caved in and got an Instagram over the winter (another scenesfromsmithpark), but so far I haven't gotten into the habit of posting much. And this one is entirely cat pictures thus far.
I don't know what to do to keep making the blog accessible. I enjoy feeling like I'm having an extended conversation with an audience, but I am feeling weird about how to keep offering up links to it. I'm not going someplace I am forced to pay to reach people. I'm not selling advertising, and I'm not making a penny off of this in any way. It's just a very public journal, not an income-generating vehicle. I suppose for now I'll keep posting every single night to Facebook, as I have been, but I'll be watching for ways to publicize without the baggage that comes with the world's biggest data mine. I'm only looking for platforms that are easy and free, and simple enough to keep me coming back to it.
Some random person on Twitter posted a question along the lines of "In your opinion, what's the best song cover that is better than the original." There were a few I agreed with, some I didn't. I lot of people referred to "Nothing Compares 2U," both the Prince and the Sinead O'Connor versions, to the point where I lost track of who was the original and who was the cover. A lot of Bob Dylan covers were mentioned, like "All Along the Watchtower," and "To Make You Feel My Love." (I didn't pipe in with my favorite BD cover, Hoyt Axton singing "Lay, Lady, Lay." I'm not sure it was better than the original; I just know it better from growing up hearing it played in my house more often.) I did nod approvingly when multiple people cited the Johnny Cash cover of "Hurt." I debated whether to offer my opinion, on this unknown person's thread, and quickly I got over my shyness to insist my favorite cover, that well outstrips the original, is "For You," the Manfred Mann version. Bruce Springsteen had a seriously wordy phase in the 1970s, where his songs were catchy as hell, but he tried to jam too much poetry into too short a space. Twice Manfred Mann came along and edited his songs to great benefit. Sure, the original poster on Twitter snapped back at someone who suggested that "Blinded By the Light" was better the second time around (and I agreed that MM made it easier to listen to), but as of now, I haven't had the sarcastic "Blocked and reported," joke he made to the people who uttered musical blasphemies. And now I'm stuck with that song in my head. It could be worse. It could be the original Springsteen.
I have started spending way more time on Twitter than anywhere else online. I'm more addicted to it than I ever was to Facebook. In fact, since we moved back to Colorado almost three years ago, I've really struggled with being on Facebook at all. Most days, the only time I go there is to post a link to this blog on the page I created, and then to copy it over to my personal page. I actually scroll through and read it maybe twice a week. They've talked a good game about the changes to the algorithms they made in the last few months, that are supposed to show you more of what your friends post and less of the sponsored crap. I have indeed seen more from friends I thought had fallen off the face of the earth since then. But I have not once been offered a post from groups I used to love like TinyKittens. (Though, thankfully, I still get my Marillion group posts, but it probably helps that I'm friends with the guy who started that one from way back.)
With all the negative press Facebook is getting, and the feeling I have that they really aren't sharing the links on my SFSP page as much anymore, I wonder where I should shift my focus. Years ago, when I first signed up on Twitter, it was because I thought maybe it would be a good place to share the blog posts, but when I put the links there, and allow it to cross-post to Facebook, the reach is usually fewer than 10 people, while the FB page usually reaches over a hundred. So instead, I have turned Twitter into my rabid political space, so that I keep that stuff off of here, and I am mindful to check Facebook every once in a while to make sure my cranky political retweets aren't shared there. (If you want to see that side of me and are on Twitter, my handle is @SmithParkCCL -- the "CCL" stands for "Crazy Cat Lady," but I haven't put much about my felines there in months.) I finally caved in and got an Instagram over the winter (another scenesfromsmithpark), but so far I haven't gotten into the habit of posting much. And this one is entirely cat pictures thus far.
I don't know what to do to keep making the blog accessible. I enjoy feeling like I'm having an extended conversation with an audience, but I am feeling weird about how to keep offering up links to it. I'm not going someplace I am forced to pay to reach people. I'm not selling advertising, and I'm not making a penny off of this in any way. It's just a very public journal, not an income-generating vehicle. I suppose for now I'll keep posting every single night to Facebook, as I have been, but I'll be watching for ways to publicize without the baggage that comes with the world's biggest data mine. I'm only looking for platforms that are easy and free, and simple enough to keep me coming back to it.
Saturday, March 17, 2018
Wearing o' the Green
Inspirational song: Let It Rain (Eric Clapton)
It rained heavily while everyone was here for Thursday game night. I turned off the heat and opened the windows for fresh air and soothing noise. (It stayed warm in here with six bodies and the residual heat of a brick house with a tile floor, heated by hot water pipes.) Then, not "seemlingly" overnight but actually so, it was suddenly green out back. Okay, the grass was noticeably greener over half the yard, not in the damaged, muddy spots that three dogs created. I would have taken pictures of that part, but it just wasn't all that pretty yet. However, after our neighbor took us around the corner for burgers, and then I got dropped off while the guys went to Boulder, I noticed there was not only an increase in the green out front, there was also a lot of purple. Crocuses have begun to bloom, interspersed among tons of tiny lupine leaves emerging all around the garden. There are tulips emerging, and the iris spikes that never really turned fully brown over the winter are looking like a more hardy green. It's still early yet to rake up all the decaying leaves, but soon we will be out trimming back the last remnants of dead flower stalks. The hen and chicks are perking up in maroon glory through their muddy blankets of leaves, and the tips of the lilacs are fat and starting to burst. Even the nectarine tree is covered in swelling bumps all over. The only sad little holdout right now is the winecrisp apple tree that appears to have fully succumbed to the blight that ate at it the last two years. I will win the battle to replace it this year. I am determined to do so, even if it means my busted back is out there wielding a shovel.
I wanted winter, but we really didn't get one. The snowpack map looks awful right now. Up north, the water equivalent is between 70 and 80 percent of normal, roughly, and the further south you go, the worse it gets. In the area around Four Corners and the big fruit growing areas around Palisade, it's under 50 percent. This is bad. I can only hope we have a wet spring, or we are in serious trouble for fire season. Maybe we can have a lot of heavy snows in April. Hope for us, please.
I'm not going out to party for St Patrick's Day. It was never one of my big holidays. In fact, the last time I remember really trying to go out and celebrate was with my college best friend whose family was truly Irish, and I had to drink iced tea because by then I suspected I was pregnant with my first child (I was right). The Mr has taken my car out to drive revelers around, and he's hoping to be able to stay much closer to home, doing short hops taking drunks a few blocks between bars and their houses rather than doing long, cross-country, metro-spanning drives. I don't miss the bar scene. Not at all. And I certainly don't need to be someplace where green beer is being sloshed all over the place. I'm not even going to pour a wee dram of Irish whisky. I don't need it. What I need is sleep, since I got none to speak of last night. (After three hours of interrupted snoozing, I ended up sitting in the dark, burning up what was left of my phone battery discovering that there is a website dedicated to different versions of Jesus Christ Superstar, with pictures from the original London cast starring my childhood celebrity crush Paul Nicholas, and there was a movie done in 2000 with Rik Mayall as Herod. Ah, the things that insomnia teaches us.) If I need any recognition of this saint's day, I'll go wear shamrock socks with my jammies that I'm about to don. Close enough.
It rained heavily while everyone was here for Thursday game night. I turned off the heat and opened the windows for fresh air and soothing noise. (It stayed warm in here with six bodies and the residual heat of a brick house with a tile floor, heated by hot water pipes.) Then, not "seemlingly" overnight but actually so, it was suddenly green out back. Okay, the grass was noticeably greener over half the yard, not in the damaged, muddy spots that three dogs created. I would have taken pictures of that part, but it just wasn't all that pretty yet. However, after our neighbor took us around the corner for burgers, and then I got dropped off while the guys went to Boulder, I noticed there was not only an increase in the green out front, there was also a lot of purple. Crocuses have begun to bloom, interspersed among tons of tiny lupine leaves emerging all around the garden. There are tulips emerging, and the iris spikes that never really turned fully brown over the winter are looking like a more hardy green. It's still early yet to rake up all the decaying leaves, but soon we will be out trimming back the last remnants of dead flower stalks. The hen and chicks are perking up in maroon glory through their muddy blankets of leaves, and the tips of the lilacs are fat and starting to burst. Even the nectarine tree is covered in swelling bumps all over. The only sad little holdout right now is the winecrisp apple tree that appears to have fully succumbed to the blight that ate at it the last two years. I will win the battle to replace it this year. I am determined to do so, even if it means my busted back is out there wielding a shovel.
I wanted winter, but we really didn't get one. The snowpack map looks awful right now. Up north, the water equivalent is between 70 and 80 percent of normal, roughly, and the further south you go, the worse it gets. In the area around Four Corners and the big fruit growing areas around Palisade, it's under 50 percent. This is bad. I can only hope we have a wet spring, or we are in serious trouble for fire season. Maybe we can have a lot of heavy snows in April. Hope for us, please.
I'm not going out to party for St Patrick's Day. It was never one of my big holidays. In fact, the last time I remember really trying to go out and celebrate was with my college best friend whose family was truly Irish, and I had to drink iced tea because by then I suspected I was pregnant with my first child (I was right). The Mr has taken my car out to drive revelers around, and he's hoping to be able to stay much closer to home, doing short hops taking drunks a few blocks between bars and their houses rather than doing long, cross-country, metro-spanning drives. I don't miss the bar scene. Not at all. And I certainly don't need to be someplace where green beer is being sloshed all over the place. I'm not even going to pour a wee dram of Irish whisky. I don't need it. What I need is sleep, since I got none to speak of last night. (After three hours of interrupted snoozing, I ended up sitting in the dark, burning up what was left of my phone battery discovering that there is a website dedicated to different versions of Jesus Christ Superstar, with pictures from the original London cast starring my childhood celebrity crush Paul Nicholas, and there was a movie done in 2000 with Rik Mayall as Herod. Ah, the things that insomnia teaches us.) If I need any recognition of this saint's day, I'll go wear shamrock socks with my jammies that I'm about to don. Close enough.
Girl Stuff
Inspirational song: Ain't No Mountain High Enough (Marvin Gaye, Tammi Terrell)
We went to see Wrinkle in Time this afternoon. I probably should have read the book one time in my life before I went to see it. Somehow, I missed out on that one. Still, I had fun watching it. It was visually stunning, and I wanted to have a remote in my hand to freeze frame and study the costumes, hair, makeup, and sets. I can't speak to the adaptation of the novel, to know whether it was relatively faithful to the original. I am curious whether the lead, the young girl, is supposed to be as reluctant to go adventuring and angry over her situation as she was played in the movie. There were times when her attitude irked me slightly, but it's possible that it was supposed to.
I have about a week and a half left to prepare for the exchange student (XS) to get here. I bought a big plastic tub to store a bunch of my clothes in, since I'm putting her in what is essentially my dressing room. I needed to bring two months' worth of clothes into my own bedroom, so that I don't have to invade her space to get dressed. I emptied the dresser in my bedroom, the one the lizards live on top of, to consolidate all of my t-shirts and leggings down into the smallest space possible, and brought over a selection of my underclothes, socks, scarves, and jammies to the drawers in here. I chose about twenty of my most comfortable hanging shirts to bring in here, and left the rest that are too small but too nice to get rid of in the other closet. I am hoping to use this opportunity to thin down the clothes I'm keeping, because honestly, I have to let go of some of the things that were never comfortable even when they mostly fit. So far I only have two things in the garbage pile, and nothing in the donation pile. I'm pretending that will change quickly.
Naturally, having a giant tub full of folded laundry on my bed was irresistible, and Athena played Queen of the Hill on it. She ignored Rabbit, who so courteously ignored her back, but when Harvey came to investigate, her ears flattened and her pupils turned into saucers. War never broke out, for which I was grateful. I'm pleased to note that it only took five months for her to calm down enough around him that they can team up to beg for food from me without hurting each other, and I actually caught her playing tag with him in the hallway this afternoon. I'm calling it playing. Nobody hissed, and no blood was drawn. This is progress. Don't tell me it isn't.
We went to see Wrinkle in Time this afternoon. I probably should have read the book one time in my life before I went to see it. Somehow, I missed out on that one. Still, I had fun watching it. It was visually stunning, and I wanted to have a remote in my hand to freeze frame and study the costumes, hair, makeup, and sets. I can't speak to the adaptation of the novel, to know whether it was relatively faithful to the original. I am curious whether the lead, the young girl, is supposed to be as reluctant to go adventuring and angry over her situation as she was played in the movie. There were times when her attitude irked me slightly, but it's possible that it was supposed to.
I have about a week and a half left to prepare for the exchange student (XS) to get here. I bought a big plastic tub to store a bunch of my clothes in, since I'm putting her in what is essentially my dressing room. I needed to bring two months' worth of clothes into my own bedroom, so that I don't have to invade her space to get dressed. I emptied the dresser in my bedroom, the one the lizards live on top of, to consolidate all of my t-shirts and leggings down into the smallest space possible, and brought over a selection of my underclothes, socks, scarves, and jammies to the drawers in here. I chose about twenty of my most comfortable hanging shirts to bring in here, and left the rest that are too small but too nice to get rid of in the other closet. I am hoping to use this opportunity to thin down the clothes I'm keeping, because honestly, I have to let go of some of the things that were never comfortable even when they mostly fit. So far I only have two things in the garbage pile, and nothing in the donation pile. I'm pretending that will change quickly.
Naturally, having a giant tub full of folded laundry on my bed was irresistible, and Athena played Queen of the Hill on it. She ignored Rabbit, who so courteously ignored her back, but when Harvey came to investigate, her ears flattened and her pupils turned into saucers. War never broke out, for which I was grateful. I'm pleased to note that it only took five months for her to calm down enough around him that they can team up to beg for food from me without hurting each other, and I actually caught her playing tag with him in the hallway this afternoon. I'm calling it playing. Nobody hissed, and no blood was drawn. This is progress. Don't tell me it isn't.
Thursday, March 15, 2018
Hospitality
Inspirational song: Pleasant Valley Sunday (The Monkees)
I didn't really have any energy this afternoon, to prep for game night. I lay down for a nap and drifted in and out as long as I could, to recharge. And then, with just over an hour and a half to spare, I ran through a basic clean of carpets, dishes, counters, and bathroom, so I couldn't procrastinate further. And then I set about making my Thursday night food offerings. This week was inspired by giant clamshells full of grapes and strawberries, plus the ham I found at Costco. I did a cold cuts spread, to include some of the cheeses we've been meaning to eat and left vacuum sealed in the fridge and some fresh vegetables that needed to be eaten while they were indeed fresh. I'm not sure what guided me to the crystal platters and grandma's china that doesn't get used often. But I covered the peninsula in pretty dishes, and added nuts, M&Ms, and honey to make it fancy.
It was an impulse I couldn't deny, trying to make the simple snacks look elegant. When our old college roommate was the first to arrive, I told him that it was obviously true: you can take the military wife out of the spouses club, but it's much harder to take the spouses club out of the military wife. This was my whole life for years, most especially at the last four assignments, in North Dakota, California, New Mexico and South Carolina. I learned well from those women. If people come to your house to play games or have a meeting, you feed them, and you make it look good, no matter what it is. There's almost always a protein, there's definitely always a sweet, and there is absolutely, definitely, what are you kidding why wouldn't there be an alcoholic option. I found a bottle of Andre of dubious origin (I have no idea who bought this) in my wine fridge, and I set out orange juice. All of those heathens drank beer, and I had all the mimosas to myself. Guess none of them had fond memories of bunco nights to reminisce about.
I saw my rheumatologist today. Mostly just checked in and complained about everything hurting. She and I agreed that my experiment is worth continuing, though. I've already dropped off my prescription to double the dose of the LDN. The next month should be illuminating. Something has got to give on my foot pain, or I'm gonna do a 180 and do anything it takes to make the crushing, tearing, and burning stop.
It has been a few weeks since I gave an update on Bump. He is responding relatively well to prednisone. It has kept him with us for almost a month longer than I expected so far, and he is still doing his best. He is thin as a rail, and every time I touch him I feel bones and fur, no muscles or padding. He is frequently enthusiastic about eating, but he still gets tired of the usual slurry of some combination of eggs, beef, chicken, and rice every once in a while. I tried to get pictures of him while Harvey was flirting with him from below, but the messenger notification icon got in the way on my camera screen, and I missed out. He eventually sat still long enough for me to get just him.
I didn't really have any energy this afternoon, to prep for game night. I lay down for a nap and drifted in and out as long as I could, to recharge. And then, with just over an hour and a half to spare, I ran through a basic clean of carpets, dishes, counters, and bathroom, so I couldn't procrastinate further. And then I set about making my Thursday night food offerings. This week was inspired by giant clamshells full of grapes and strawberries, plus the ham I found at Costco. I did a cold cuts spread, to include some of the cheeses we've been meaning to eat and left vacuum sealed in the fridge and some fresh vegetables that needed to be eaten while they were indeed fresh. I'm not sure what guided me to the crystal platters and grandma's china that doesn't get used often. But I covered the peninsula in pretty dishes, and added nuts, M&Ms, and honey to make it fancy.
It was an impulse I couldn't deny, trying to make the simple snacks look elegant. When our old college roommate was the first to arrive, I told him that it was obviously true: you can take the military wife out of the spouses club, but it's much harder to take the spouses club out of the military wife. This was my whole life for years, most especially at the last four assignments, in North Dakota, California, New Mexico and South Carolina. I learned well from those women. If people come to your house to play games or have a meeting, you feed them, and you make it look good, no matter what it is. There's almost always a protein, there's definitely always a sweet, and there is absolutely, definitely, what are you kidding why wouldn't there be an alcoholic option. I found a bottle of Andre of dubious origin (I have no idea who bought this) in my wine fridge, and I set out orange juice. All of those heathens drank beer, and I had all the mimosas to myself. Guess none of them had fond memories of bunco nights to reminisce about.
I saw my rheumatologist today. Mostly just checked in and complained about everything hurting. She and I agreed that my experiment is worth continuing, though. I've already dropped off my prescription to double the dose of the LDN. The next month should be illuminating. Something has got to give on my foot pain, or I'm gonna do a 180 and do anything it takes to make the crushing, tearing, and burning stop.
It has been a few weeks since I gave an update on Bump. He is responding relatively well to prednisone. It has kept him with us for almost a month longer than I expected so far, and he is still doing his best. He is thin as a rail, and every time I touch him I feel bones and fur, no muscles or padding. He is frequently enthusiastic about eating, but he still gets tired of the usual slurry of some combination of eggs, beef, chicken, and rice every once in a while. I tried to get pictures of him while Harvey was flirting with him from below, but the messenger notification icon got in the way on my camera screen, and I missed out. He eventually sat still long enough for me to get just him.
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
A Child Shall Lead Them
Inspirational song: Changes (David Bowie)
Each successive generation must surely feel they have contributed something monumental to the American story. The young adults in the 1940s are considered the "greatest generation" for the extraordinary combined effort they put forth to fight and end World War II. The "beat generation" broke molds of conformity, and set up the alley oop for the hippies to follow, shattering the norms their big brothers and sisters cracked. The flower children and the disco kids contributed by giving us the sexual revolution of the 70s. I'm not sure to what I should credit my own generation, because while we were the youth buying the Live Aid tickets and albums, we were also the ones not getting that we were supposed to think Gordon Gekko was villanous when he oozed the phrase "Greed is good." Millenials get an outsized load of crap dumped on them unfairly as entitled, which I don't buy, because it was their parents giving them those loathed participation trophies they didn't ask for. They are some of the hardest working young people I've ever witnessed, just because we made the things that are supposed to be necessities (like education and housing) unattainably expensive by the time they came along. I don't think I know anyone under 35 who hasn't had to work two jobs or surrender their options to the military to make ends meet without drowning in debt for at least a few years of their early adulthood.
I'm not sure where to draw the line for Gen Z. Are they the kids who are in high school now, or only their big brothers and sisters? Wherever that demarcation falls, I have to say, I am impressed as hell with the kids born since 1999. Once upon a time I might have looked disparagingly on the children of the hippies, thinking that their lack of boundaries was somehow negative for the development of those kids into adults. Now that the hippies' grandchildren are making noise, I'm reevaluating my skepticism. The current crop of kids have obliterated old biases, and challenged the norms in a way that makes me feel like a troglodyte (and I consider myself rather forward thinking). They are inclusive and caring in such a natural, uncomplicated way that progressive generations before could only have dreamed about.
But there is also an underlying frisson of stress that is as pervasive as it is baffling to me. I don't know what we have done to create all the stress these kids are under. I don't know whether it is environmental, chemical, structural, or what. I am not going to take the lazy way out and go on about video games or other tech influences. I think more than anything, that easy access to the rest of the world has given them less sense of isolation, not made them weird loners. But something is making people snap, and the kids are the ones who are living in fear that the next violent episode raining bullets down on a group of kids is going to be in their own schools. They are sick of being in fear for their lives, just by trying to grow up with their own cohorts, in their own schools. How dare administrators try to silence the kids who spoke up today, who marched out of their classrooms across the country, writing "Don't shoot" on their palms and carrying signs saying "Am I next?" These children are far more mature and intelligent and passionate than older people with a stake in the status quo are giving them credit for. They know what is happening to themselves, and they have a right to speak up and push back. I was so proud of them for standing up for themselves. The walkouts today represent more than just a reaction to the most recent spate of gun violence. They represent the future, and the future is mad as hell and sick of your crap, if you are part of the problem. They have stood up with a unified voice and sworn to vote. God help the old guard when they actually do it.
(I have no pictures of walkouts or teenagers. I did take a picture of a section of the mountains that was on fire today, and that's the best representation of what I've got for today's essay.)
Each successive generation must surely feel they have contributed something monumental to the American story. The young adults in the 1940s are considered the "greatest generation" for the extraordinary combined effort they put forth to fight and end World War II. The "beat generation" broke molds of conformity, and set up the alley oop for the hippies to follow, shattering the norms their big brothers and sisters cracked. The flower children and the disco kids contributed by giving us the sexual revolution of the 70s. I'm not sure to what I should credit my own generation, because while we were the youth buying the Live Aid tickets and albums, we were also the ones not getting that we were supposed to think Gordon Gekko was villanous when he oozed the phrase "Greed is good." Millenials get an outsized load of crap dumped on them unfairly as entitled, which I don't buy, because it was their parents giving them those loathed participation trophies they didn't ask for. They are some of the hardest working young people I've ever witnessed, just because we made the things that are supposed to be necessities (like education and housing) unattainably expensive by the time they came along. I don't think I know anyone under 35 who hasn't had to work two jobs or surrender their options to the military to make ends meet without drowning in debt for at least a few years of their early adulthood.
I'm not sure where to draw the line for Gen Z. Are they the kids who are in high school now, or only their big brothers and sisters? Wherever that demarcation falls, I have to say, I am impressed as hell with the kids born since 1999. Once upon a time I might have looked disparagingly on the children of the hippies, thinking that their lack of boundaries was somehow negative for the development of those kids into adults. Now that the hippies' grandchildren are making noise, I'm reevaluating my skepticism. The current crop of kids have obliterated old biases, and challenged the norms in a way that makes me feel like a troglodyte (and I consider myself rather forward thinking). They are inclusive and caring in such a natural, uncomplicated way that progressive generations before could only have dreamed about.
But there is also an underlying frisson of stress that is as pervasive as it is baffling to me. I don't know what we have done to create all the stress these kids are under. I don't know whether it is environmental, chemical, structural, or what. I am not going to take the lazy way out and go on about video games or other tech influences. I think more than anything, that easy access to the rest of the world has given them less sense of isolation, not made them weird loners. But something is making people snap, and the kids are the ones who are living in fear that the next violent episode raining bullets down on a group of kids is going to be in their own schools. They are sick of being in fear for their lives, just by trying to grow up with their own cohorts, in their own schools. How dare administrators try to silence the kids who spoke up today, who marched out of their classrooms across the country, writing "Don't shoot" on their palms and carrying signs saying "Am I next?" These children are far more mature and intelligent and passionate than older people with a stake in the status quo are giving them credit for. They know what is happening to themselves, and they have a right to speak up and push back. I was so proud of them for standing up for themselves. The walkouts today represent more than just a reaction to the most recent spate of gun violence. They represent the future, and the future is mad as hell and sick of your crap, if you are part of the problem. They have stood up with a unified voice and sworn to vote. God help the old guard when they actually do it.
(I have no pictures of walkouts or teenagers. I did take a picture of a section of the mountains that was on fire today, and that's the best representation of what I've got for today's essay.)
Tuesday, March 13, 2018
Mothers and Daughters
Inspirational song: Your Mother Should Know (The Beatles)
There was one little word, one three-letter word, that completely salvaged what was otherwise a mediocre-to-poor day. I'd been tripping from minor inconvenience to minor inconvenience all morning. Little things went wrong, but nothing so big that it justified really complaining about. I was just in a bad mood, sort of tired, sort of achy. I arrived barely on time to Rotary, when I was supposed to have been early to stand at the front door and be the greeter. (I was asked at the very last minute to do it, but before I could get there, I decided my foot hurt too bad to stand for twenty minutes, when I also needed to sit and take notes on the meeting.) I walked in the side door that comes up from the parking garage, as usual, and the first face I saw was the foreign exchange student (what did I say I'd nickname her here? XS?). She saw me and lit up. After a hug, she turned to introduce her sister, who had come to visit her from Croatia. She said, "This is my new mom." And at that moment, the whole way I thought of my world changed, and my mood improved. That made me feel so good, that I'm not just a host, I will be a stand-in parent. I knew that this situation held the possibility that XS and I could end up being friends for the rest of my life. But it could be even better than that. I could get to perform one of my favorite moves, and become her honorary mother. I was already looking forward to having her here. Today it took on a glorious complexity that I hadn't allowed myself to expect before.
I went from Rotary to my daughter's, to help her edit something important she was writing. She was really close on it, but she wanted a little reassurance that she was saying what she intended to, in the most respectful and inclusive way she could. I only tweaked a little sentence construction, and suggested one more careful clarification. And then I hung around and chatted and tried to catch the eye of some of my grandkittens. For the most part, the cats entirely ignored me. I think having them all living so much closer, so I'm there more often, has made it to where I'm not a novelty anymore. Maybe next time I go, I bring cat treats in my purse, so they come check me out.
My mother sent me a digest of our genealogy several days ago that alerted me that my ancestry is even more weighted toward Germany than I had thought previously. I hadn't realized that my grandmother's family was evenly split between Scottish and German forebears. I thought it was my grandfather on that side who provided all the German line. It was just another layer of "oh, that makes sense" when I think about my body and face type. And then tonight, my uncle dug up a photo of that same motherline, one I had never seen before. It was my great grandmother, surrounded by her five children, the youngest in a pram, from sometime in the mid to late 1920s. My grandmother is the second little girl from the left (in the picture below), the one who is looking slyly away, like she is contemplating the trouble she could get into once the photographer is done with them. I'd love to have known just what it was she went and did after that picture.
There was one little word, one three-letter word, that completely salvaged what was otherwise a mediocre-to-poor day. I'd been tripping from minor inconvenience to minor inconvenience all morning. Little things went wrong, but nothing so big that it justified really complaining about. I was just in a bad mood, sort of tired, sort of achy. I arrived barely on time to Rotary, when I was supposed to have been early to stand at the front door and be the greeter. (I was asked at the very last minute to do it, but before I could get there, I decided my foot hurt too bad to stand for twenty minutes, when I also needed to sit and take notes on the meeting.) I walked in the side door that comes up from the parking garage, as usual, and the first face I saw was the foreign exchange student (what did I say I'd nickname her here? XS?). She saw me and lit up. After a hug, she turned to introduce her sister, who had come to visit her from Croatia. She said, "This is my new mom." And at that moment, the whole way I thought of my world changed, and my mood improved. That made me feel so good, that I'm not just a host, I will be a stand-in parent. I knew that this situation held the possibility that XS and I could end up being friends for the rest of my life. But it could be even better than that. I could get to perform one of my favorite moves, and become her honorary mother. I was already looking forward to having her here. Today it took on a glorious complexity that I hadn't allowed myself to expect before.
I went from Rotary to my daughter's, to help her edit something important she was writing. She was really close on it, but she wanted a little reassurance that she was saying what she intended to, in the most respectful and inclusive way she could. I only tweaked a little sentence construction, and suggested one more careful clarification. And then I hung around and chatted and tried to catch the eye of some of my grandkittens. For the most part, the cats entirely ignored me. I think having them all living so much closer, so I'm there more often, has made it to where I'm not a novelty anymore. Maybe next time I go, I bring cat treats in my purse, so they come check me out.
My mother sent me a digest of our genealogy several days ago that alerted me that my ancestry is even more weighted toward Germany than I had thought previously. I hadn't realized that my grandmother's family was evenly split between Scottish and German forebears. I thought it was my grandfather on that side who provided all the German line. It was just another layer of "oh, that makes sense" when I think about my body and face type. And then tonight, my uncle dug up a photo of that same motherline, one I had never seen before. It was my great grandmother, surrounded by her five children, the youngest in a pram, from sometime in the mid to late 1920s. My grandmother is the second little girl from the left (in the picture below), the one who is looking slyly away, like she is contemplating the trouble she could get into once the photographer is done with them. I'd love to have known just what it was she went and did after that picture.
Monday, March 12, 2018
Samples
Inspirational song: It's Not Easy Being Green (Kermit the Frog)
Next door neighbor has progressed on his office reno. After panicking that he heard a noise that he thought was the ceiling fan support failing (it wasn't), he asked for assistance running a hard-wired ethernet cable. We have gigabit internet in this town (although we were one of the last neighborhoods to get the fiber optic cable connected), and it is truly amazing. But to get the real gigabit speeds, up and down, one needs a wired connection, not wi-fi. Neighbor was going to go down into his crawl space, while I stayed in the office, helping to run cable up through a hole in the wall. We never actually made it to that part. Mr S-P came over and gave a tutorial for how the process would work, and sent us to the hardware store for a longer spade bit to drill the hole from the underside, a drywall saw, and a different kind of gang box to put in the wall to hold the plug in place. Then the Mr skipped out and went to a meeting, while we went to Lowe's. We remembered the gang box, and the longer spade bit turned into an extender piece instead. He also picked up a bright neon green tape measure, that ought to be easy to read in the crawl space. We forgot the drywall saw until we were back in the car and starting to pull out of the parking lot. But I'm not surprised we forgot. We were distracted by paint.
He wants to make the walls dark green, and because green of any shade is such a difficult color to choose (I swear there are more greens in the color palette than any other possible color there is), I strongly recommended getting samples, and painting them on at least three walls, watching at two or three different times of day. He had chips taped up when I arrived, and his top three ranked. He picked his two favorites for samples. We waited more than ten minutes for someone to show up and help us at the paint counter, even though someone at customer service had paged for help halfway through our wait. The guy who did our order was not regularly behind the paint counter, so I wondered how well he was going to do. I kept that to myself until we were back at my neighbor's house. The first sample I opened was very poorly mixed. I needed to borrow a spoon and I scraped the blue and yellow pigment from the lid to stir it in. I made a huge mess of my fingers, but lucky for me, this afternoon I gave myself a dark green St Patrick's Day manicure. Nobody will notice if there's still wall paint there (not even I know). The two samples are up, and weren't dry before I gave up and went home. Neighbor is really happy with his decision to go with dark green. Me, I can't decide whether to push for a tinted primer or not. It is old school, but it feels like the right thing to do. The room used to be a little kid's room, and the walls show it. I feel like I would be remiss if I didn't give him the best advice I can.
I accomplished very little beyond the above and a few light chores today. I'm having more bad foot days than tolerable ones these days. Walking, standing, even sitting with my feet up is bad if I have any pressure at all on the left foot. I don't know what to do anymore. I can't even wear house slippers or have a blanket on top of it. Before anyone asks, yes, I have spoken to doctors about it. No one is taking it seriously. When I say my feet have hurt for twenty years non-stop, they totally blow off me saying "but this is different by an order of magnitude." My heel feels like I sliced the tendons on the bone spur when I was trying to massage the stiffness out of it seven or eight months ago by rolling a therapy ball on it too hard. The ball of my foot feels like I've been stepped on by a horse. The podiatrist ignored me when I told her about it less than 24 hours after the worst pain started. My primary care and rheumatologist have not prioritized it over everything else going on. I go back to the rheumatologist this week. I am going to have to nag. It is all I think about anymore. I can't focus on anything else. I'm just so afraid that they're going to insist I treat it like plantar fasciitis, which is the exact opposite of what I need. Trying to massage and stretch the fascia is what caused the damage in the first place. I feel like there are no easy answers.
Next door neighbor has progressed on his office reno. After panicking that he heard a noise that he thought was the ceiling fan support failing (it wasn't), he asked for assistance running a hard-wired ethernet cable. We have gigabit internet in this town (although we were one of the last neighborhoods to get the fiber optic cable connected), and it is truly amazing. But to get the real gigabit speeds, up and down, one needs a wired connection, not wi-fi. Neighbor was going to go down into his crawl space, while I stayed in the office, helping to run cable up through a hole in the wall. We never actually made it to that part. Mr S-P came over and gave a tutorial for how the process would work, and sent us to the hardware store for a longer spade bit to drill the hole from the underside, a drywall saw, and a different kind of gang box to put in the wall to hold the plug in place. Then the Mr skipped out and went to a meeting, while we went to Lowe's. We remembered the gang box, and the longer spade bit turned into an extender piece instead. He also picked up a bright neon green tape measure, that ought to be easy to read in the crawl space. We forgot the drywall saw until we were back in the car and starting to pull out of the parking lot. But I'm not surprised we forgot. We were distracted by paint.
He wants to make the walls dark green, and because green of any shade is such a difficult color to choose (I swear there are more greens in the color palette than any other possible color there is), I strongly recommended getting samples, and painting them on at least three walls, watching at two or three different times of day. He had chips taped up when I arrived, and his top three ranked. He picked his two favorites for samples. We waited more than ten minutes for someone to show up and help us at the paint counter, even though someone at customer service had paged for help halfway through our wait. The guy who did our order was not regularly behind the paint counter, so I wondered how well he was going to do. I kept that to myself until we were back at my neighbor's house. The first sample I opened was very poorly mixed. I needed to borrow a spoon and I scraped the blue and yellow pigment from the lid to stir it in. I made a huge mess of my fingers, but lucky for me, this afternoon I gave myself a dark green St Patrick's Day manicure. Nobody will notice if there's still wall paint there (not even I know). The two samples are up, and weren't dry before I gave up and went home. Neighbor is really happy with his decision to go with dark green. Me, I can't decide whether to push for a tinted primer or not. It is old school, but it feels like the right thing to do. The room used to be a little kid's room, and the walls show it. I feel like I would be remiss if I didn't give him the best advice I can.
I accomplished very little beyond the above and a few light chores today. I'm having more bad foot days than tolerable ones these days. Walking, standing, even sitting with my feet up is bad if I have any pressure at all on the left foot. I don't know what to do anymore. I can't even wear house slippers or have a blanket on top of it. Before anyone asks, yes, I have spoken to doctors about it. No one is taking it seriously. When I say my feet have hurt for twenty years non-stop, they totally blow off me saying "but this is different by an order of magnitude." My heel feels like I sliced the tendons on the bone spur when I was trying to massage the stiffness out of it seven or eight months ago by rolling a therapy ball on it too hard. The ball of my foot feels like I've been stepped on by a horse. The podiatrist ignored me when I told her about it less than 24 hours after the worst pain started. My primary care and rheumatologist have not prioritized it over everything else going on. I go back to the rheumatologist this week. I am going to have to nag. It is all I think about anymore. I can't focus on anything else. I'm just so afraid that they're going to insist I treat it like plantar fasciitis, which is the exact opposite of what I need. Trying to massage and stretch the fascia is what caused the damage in the first place. I feel like there are no easy answers.
Sunday, March 11, 2018
Cultural Enrichment
Inspirational song: My Shot (Hamilton)
Two or three years ago, everyone who had ready access to Broadway plays raved about Hamilton. It was so fresh and different and wonderful, they said. Yeah, I suppose it is, I thought, but I wasn’t all fired up to see it. I didn’t listen to the soundtrack. I didn’t read the supporting documents. I just didn’t catch the bug. I did watch Lin-Manuel Miranda host Saturday Night Live, and he seemed like an okay dude then. It wasn’t until I watched him tell the story on Drunk History that I really paid attention. Okay, the story seemed a little more interesting after that. Then someone I watch (Randy Rainbow, maybe?) parodied The Room Where It Happens, and I grooved along with it. Now I find L-MM turning up all over the place, showing off his classic nerd bona fides, and I really enjoy listening to him talk.
It was only a matter of time before I had done a 180, and decided I would move heaven and earth to see Hamilton when the touring company made their Denver stop. Luckily I didn’t have to work that hard to do it. My good buddy who had the season tickets to the Buell Theater (until she decided this year they weren’t worth renewing, just for the one or two shows she really wants to see each season), she took the lead and bought four tickets. She did it on faith, that someone would want to go. At first her kids turned their noses up, and three of her friends (I was first to speak up) immediately chimed in to go along. By the time our showtime was upon us, the kids wanted to go, but we grown women were not giving away our shot.
We carpooled downtown, parked at the DCPA, and walked around a bit. We started with drinks at The Office, where I found the most divine Old Fashioned, made with clove syrup. It was ridiculously potent on my empty stomach, and to my dismay, the theater was completely sold out of the cheese and charcuterie plates that could have soaked it up. I had to metabolize all that whisky quickly to be able to follow along with the rapid fire delivery of the spectacular lyrics of this musical. Our seats were super close to the stage, but unfortunately for me, I was the farthest left of the group, so I had the biggest chunk of the scenery tucked out of sight.
I may have taken years to warm up to the idea of seeing this play, but it didn’t take a full minute of performance time before I was thoroughly enraptured. I know I blinked and clapped, but I don’t think I moved a muscle otherwise. I was riveted. I’m ready for film adaptations, and I want them now!
We ended out girls day out over at Stout Street Social. It was packed, but we had reservations. Unfortunately, the large crowd meant a couple screwups in getting the things we ordered actually delivered to the table. The food and company more than made up for hit or miss service.
Long story short, when you get the chance to see Hamilton, don’t drag your feet like I did for the first few years of its existence. Go. Go immediately.
Two or three years ago, everyone who had ready access to Broadway plays raved about Hamilton. It was so fresh and different and wonderful, they said. Yeah, I suppose it is, I thought, but I wasn’t all fired up to see it. I didn’t listen to the soundtrack. I didn’t read the supporting documents. I just didn’t catch the bug. I did watch Lin-Manuel Miranda host Saturday Night Live, and he seemed like an okay dude then. It wasn’t until I watched him tell the story on Drunk History that I really paid attention. Okay, the story seemed a little more interesting after that. Then someone I watch (Randy Rainbow, maybe?) parodied The Room Where It Happens, and I grooved along with it. Now I find L-MM turning up all over the place, showing off his classic nerd bona fides, and I really enjoy listening to him talk.
It was only a matter of time before I had done a 180, and decided I would move heaven and earth to see Hamilton when the touring company made their Denver stop. Luckily I didn’t have to work that hard to do it. My good buddy who had the season tickets to the Buell Theater (until she decided this year they weren’t worth renewing, just for the one or two shows she really wants to see each season), she took the lead and bought four tickets. She did it on faith, that someone would want to go. At first her kids turned their noses up, and three of her friends (I was first to speak up) immediately chimed in to go along. By the time our showtime was upon us, the kids wanted to go, but we grown women were not giving away our shot.
We carpooled downtown, parked at the DCPA, and walked around a bit. We started with drinks at The Office, where I found the most divine Old Fashioned, made with clove syrup. It was ridiculously potent on my empty stomach, and to my dismay, the theater was completely sold out of the cheese and charcuterie plates that could have soaked it up. I had to metabolize all that whisky quickly to be able to follow along with the rapid fire delivery of the spectacular lyrics of this musical. Our seats were super close to the stage, but unfortunately for me, I was the farthest left of the group, so I had the biggest chunk of the scenery tucked out of sight.
I may have taken years to warm up to the idea of seeing this play, but it didn’t take a full minute of performance time before I was thoroughly enraptured. I know I blinked and clapped, but I don’t think I moved a muscle otherwise. I was riveted. I’m ready for film adaptations, and I want them now!
We ended out girls day out over at Stout Street Social. It was packed, but we had reservations. Unfortunately, the large crowd meant a couple screwups in getting the things we ordered actually delivered to the table. The food and company more than made up for hit or miss service.
Long story short, when you get the chance to see Hamilton, don’t drag your feet like I did for the first few years of its existence. Go. Go immediately.
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