Graffiti

Inspirational song: Kashmir (Led Zeppelin)

I don't usually decorate my personal spaces with words. That's weird, because I have spent so much of my life dedicated to their production, cataloging, sharing, and so on. I don't put very many pieces of art up on the walls with words on them. While I have a lot of books, I don't use lots of them in conspicuous decorative locations. And what I never do is put one of those inspirational sayings directly on the wall as was popular in the last decade. I don't need to be reminded to Live, Love, or Laugh. I don't need to have the word Family screaming at me from my living room. Other people can do that and I won't judge them (much). I just don't want it in my own house.

So I wonder if that is why I'm attuned to noticing words when they appear in places where they normally wouldn't be. We drove past a demolition derby car today (didn't get my camera out in time), and it jarred me, and fascinated me at the same time. It had a sign with numbers on the top, and then all kinds of weird stuff spray-painted on all sides of it, including eyes on the hood and teeth in the radiator grill. I think the name of a chiropractor was on the back fender, which is funny considering how jarring demolition derby is on the bones and joints.

It wasn't the only weird piece of incongruous text that caught my eye in the last four days. We were at the Resource store in Boulder today, buying a stack of flagstone to complete a patio in the back yard. At one point I got overheated and sat in the truck, hoping I could find enough shade not to burn to a crisp (I didn't--I'm dead now). I looked at an odd collection of junk on the other side of the truck, and hidden within were the words "directed by Wes Craven." It threw me for a second, because at first I couldn't remember who that was. I thought maybe it was a guy from my rotary club, and then I put the name in the right context. Oh, got it. I still don't know what that thing was that had those words stuck to it. It just seemed so odd, out there next to recyced house junk.

On my way from where I parked the car down to catch my two runners at the Bolder Boulder, I tried to stop in at the University Memorial Center for a beverage and bathroom stop. It was closed. But as I walked up, I noticed a bike locked up outside of it with an old fashioned bit of word art on it. I never knew the origin of the World War II graffiti "Kilroy was here," but I do know it existed. This bike was painted army jeep green, with Kilroy on it. And I, who never served in the army, and who rarely decorated with words, thought it was fantastic. I don't even ride bikes pretty much ever, and I wanted this bike. A picture was worth a thousand words, and that was all I walked away with.

Keeping Things Fresh and Exciting

Inspirational song: Learning to Fly (Foo Fighters)

or maybe... Learning to Fly (Pink Floyd)

or even... Learning to Fly (Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers)

At some point in the many decades of writing Doctor Who, it must have occurred to someone that the Daleks' worst enemy was not the Doctor, but stairs. How many years was the show on the air before they entered it into canon that Daleks could hover and fly? It changed everything, that little detail, didn't it?

We have been playing Pathfinder D&D since October or so. I've had so much on my plate that I never, in all of these months, dug deeply into the abilities for my character. I've spent so much time developing his personality quirks that I skipped the in-depth reading for his skills. It was too much fun developing an affable alcoholic trans half-dwarf who has an obsession with cats and looks like he raided the entire pink section of Queen Elizabeth II's closet. He's impatient and likes to smash things with his fancy Lucerne hammer, but other than that he hasn't demonstrated a whole lot of useful clerical talents. I thought I was picking up the pace a week or two ago, whenever we last played, when I paralyzed the big bad foe (waving my pencil like a wand and yelling "petrificus totalus!") long enough to peel off his special gauntlets, leaving a small piece of him vulnerable to an "inflict wounds" spell once he broke free of my hold. But no one blinked at what I thought was clever clerical work.

So this week I had my head down in the rule book for a while. We were climbing an unusual bell tower (let's say that the drawing was rather earthy and suggestive), that was crumbling in disrepair, and there was a section of the interior stairwell missing. I pushed my way from the rear of the party to the front, wanting to see whether the stairs were really broken through, or was it an illusion. I threw sand on them, and it totally fell all the way down. I didn't waste a spell slot on "detect magic," when it was obvious there were no hidden stairs. Two of our fleet-footed party members acrobatically leapt across the opening and stretched out a rope. Brn, my dwarf (and if any of my old campaign from high school reads this, his backstory is that he is the natural son of Drn and an unlucky dwarven barmaid--they'll understand), is the strongest member of our party, and he wanted to be useful and hold the rope to get everyone else across the danger zone. Everyone waved him off as superfluous, and he experienced a moment of insecurity. For his sake, I asked the Game Master how this whole "special spells granted by your deity" bit worked, and got the answer I wanted. This was the GM's first mistake.

The three faceless skinsack minion monsters (Brn is too impatient to remember exactly what they're called) were quite startled when a muscular, bearded, pink fairy flew up to the top of the tower and rang the bells they were hiding on with his scary, pointed hammer, and one good thump knocked out two of them, then all three fell when the bell came loose from its mooring and fell to the ground below. They died instantly. Brn got all the experience points and the rest of the party looked at each other and asked, "Did you know the dwarf could FLY??" Well, most of them did. Nick got knocked off the stairs when the bell clipped them on the way down, and he needed Brn to land and get back to regular cleric magic, and heal his significant wounds from falling onto the bell and the dead monsters.

I don't know how dramatically I've changed the trajectory of the party by revealing that new talent. I know the GM looked as full of dread as the day she allowed Nick to be created, with his dazzling display and charismatic attack that can only fail if he rolls a natural one, after Mr S-P discovered during our Festivus side campaign that when he ran up on enchanted Christmas trees and yelled, "I AM SANTA CLAUS!" he was able to intimidate them into sacrificing themselves into a burning yule log. I can't wait to see how they react when I automatically gain the ability to teleport. The poor DM.

Driving

Inspirational song: Jesus Built My Hotrod (Ministry)

Of all of the possible dumb things to do, driving home from the movie theater today ranks up there close to the dumbest. I should not have done it. But I had gone there alone to meet a friend, and had no one from my family to turn the key over to in order to get myself and my car home. I have been feeling kind of icky for a few days, and the nerve pain that was diagnosed as "silent migraine auras" has come back in force. (It's the reason I got Botox, but it didn't seem to last as long this time. I think I have more than a month until the next round. If only the appointment didn't vanish from my phone calendar.) Yesterday I took a pain killer that I'd mostly stopped using, and I needed a nap that left me super groggy. Today it wasn't so much pain as that feeling of being electrocuted, and I dug through my prescription archives, and took a couple of long-abandoned gabapentin capsules to fight the nerve shock. Again, I had a nap, without planning on it, and I barely woke in time to meet my friend at the movies. I can say with all certainty that the above-mentioned song (Jesus Built My Hotrod) was an excellent accompaniment to being late and driving slightly aggressively across town on a deadline. I made it before the movie started, and my heart was racing enough along the drive, listening to that song, that I could consider myself awake.

I made it through the movie feeling mostly okay, but starting to move at the end made me feel like I had to break through a hardened crust on my muscles to make them put down the footrest on the chair (yes, I insist on the theater with recliners for every seat), and standing was a good trick. I am glad that I asked for the handicap row so I didn't have to climb up or down any stairs, but because I did it minutes before the show started, they didn't quiz me on why I wanted it. It was the first time I asked for it, so I still have no idea what the criteria are to get it. Maybe that's on their website.

It was after the show that things went sideways. My friend and I talked on our way through the parking lot, and it was going okay, even though I was sore. And then suddenly it wasn't okay anymore. It was a struggle to stay upright, like I had just gotten off a really long roller coaster ride. I abruptly ended our conversation by explaining that I was too dizzy to stand. I staggered into my car, and started the engine, knowing this was borderline dangerous. I don't remember anymore the song that was playing as I drove home, but I remember thinking, "this is what would play on the soundtrack of how I died." Traffic was moderate, and I took the route home with the fewest turns or stops. I made it okay, but I felt nervous that it could go wrong at any moment.

Now that I'm home safe, I wonder how long I will have the confidence to drive as this stuff progresses. Will days like this happen more often? Is it just an aberration? I still feel dizzy, and creating sentences is hard. Making the blog read as a linear narrative is nearly impossible. I've gone through all sorts of medical testing for years, trying to explain why these dizzy spells come on, and the migraine aura diagnosis is the only answer anyone has ever given me. Everyone else said there was nothing going on. I don't believe migraine explains everything, and I definitely don't accept that there is nothing at all. I just wish I could find a real answer short of something catastrophic compelling it.

(I swear, I was at a red light when I took this photo. The car was not moving. I have no idea why it was so blurry. Maybe I had a fingerprint on the lens?)

Be Bold

Inspirational song: Don't Give Up (Peter Gabriel ft. Kate Bush)

Some truly amazing people moved through Boulder today. Lots of them ran. More of them combined running and walking. A few very determined people rolled, either propelled under their own power or by being pushed by others. While I waited in Folsom Stadium (in vain) to see Mr S-P and XS come around the final curve to the finish line, I was entertained by runners and walkers in costumes, like the tall guy with a passing resemblance to Will Ferrell who was high-stepping and waving in his Elf suit. Or the two muscle-bound guys in hair-metal wigs and spandex that would have thrilled David Lee Roth in his heyday, having a wrestling match just under the horseshoe, before the finish line. An individual who may or may not still identify with the XY chromosomes he was born with ran in a Cruella de Vil costume, complete with cigarette holder (probably empty, but who knows?). Then there was the girl, late teens or early 20s, I'd guess, with more than a little extra padding, running in the Wonder Woman costume. She gave me hope.

As much fun as the costume people were, there were others who really inspired me. There were people in their 80s, hunched over, but still completing all 10 kilometers of the race. There was a guy who had noticeably atrophied legs, obviously dependent on his green and black carbon fiber forearm crutch, walking at a quite respectable pace around the field. The announcers called attention to the few dozen people who had run in all 40 Bolder Boulders, since 1979. But the one who really impressed the crap out of me was the person (I think a young man?) who had obviously had a serious medical even on the course, yet was so determined to finish, that he was escorted by his running partner (I'm guessing his mom), three or four EMTs, plus one more pushing a gurney, waiting for him to collapse.

I keep wanting to tell myself that if these people can run the race, surely I could walk it. But then, for all that it was a mostly cloudy day, I had a hard time completing the day just for sitting in the stands, having to climb the stairs from the bottom scoreboard to the main walkway absolutely broke my hip flexors, and by the time we were home again, I had to have two hot tub soaks, interrupted by a long nap. Maybe if I ran with one of those ludicrous costumes, like Chip the Buffalo, or the 1st Bank Cube, I'd travel with enough shade to make it 10k.

I'd never stayed all the way through the elite runners and military salute before. The women kicked off first, and less than half an hour later, they were crossing the finish line. The men started a few minutes after they did, and they were in the stadium as the last woman was finishing (pretty sure she had a cramp or fell or something, because she was several minutes after the rest of the pack.) There was a large contingent of supporters from Ethiopia, and their dedication as fans was well-founded. For sure the winner of the men's elite was Ethiopian, and I think the women's was too.

For the final ceremony, they introduced members of the original 10th Mountain Division, and played tributes to their history. One of them played the national anthem on his trumpet while the crowd sang along. The final note was only beginning to fade when the National Guard jet flew over. (The amount of planning and coordination involved in that sort of perfection is monumental.) A crowd of new recruits took their oath of enlistment, and then the Longmont skydiving team dropped in with flags of each of the service branches, a MIA flag, and Old Glory. The spectacle was unparalleled.

We Accept Her, We Accept Her

Inspirational song: Sisters Are Doin It for Themselves (Eurythmics)

I feel like I keep returning to a theme here, but today I received abundant reassurance that I made the right call three months ago when I offered up my family to host the rotary exchange student for the final third of her term here. I promised the people in charge of deciding where she goes that I had raised daughters and thus had peers to offer her. I had no way of knowing whether they would truly bond with each other, but I really hoped they would. My two girls who live locally have come through even better than I guessed they could. They randomly show up to the house, and announce that they are taking XS for the afternoon, bye mom, we'll have her back by bedtime.

This happened again today. With it being Memorial Day Weekend, there was another iteration of Creek Fest down in Boulder. My daughter looooooves Creek Fest. I could have gone with them, if I was into the idea of wandering around in huge crowds in the sun. I passed, figuring the girls were just fine without me. (Much as I love roller coasters and folk art and whatnot, I'm broke, can't eat funnel cake, and my feet hurt enough without walking -- they were better off without me as an anchor.) I made the right call. Foster daughter took pictures and video while younger daughter and XS played in Boulder Creek. It was all I wanted for this new addition to the family: total acceptance.

That's really all I have tonight. I should have turned in earlier than now. Tomorrow is the Bolder Boulder, and XS and Mr S-P are running/walking it. She says she wants to walk, and his lingering deep chest cought may force him to do the same. My job is to wait at the finish line with a camera, once again.

Pantsing

Inspirational song: In the Summertime (Mungo Jerry)

I've been winging it all day. Flying by the seat of my pants, as it were. Very little has gone as planned, and unlike most days, I had a lot of planning done on how this day would go. I was supposed to do a casual open house on our condo that is coming open this weekend as the tenants move out. (Which is a huge shame, because I really liked these guys, who brought their check out to me on time, and who almost never asked for any effort expended on my part.) I had offered the open house to at least six different grad students who asked about the rental, but only one was already in town, ready to look. All of the others were out of state, planning to move later in the summer. This is not cool for me. I can't leave this place open for three months like I did last fall. I fell into a hole several thousand dollars deep last year, and I had only barely popped my head above the edge recently. But I thought I'd at least have a chance at securing one person walking through, maybe agreeing to rent it. I had to go to town early, driving my son in law to work, and I wasted time until the showing in a coffeehouse. I drove over fifteen minutes early, parked, and before I could get out of the car, I realized I had failed to bring the key to the condo. I high-tailed it back home to get a key, and on the way got a call from the interested party postponing the showing for the sake of a sick dog. So I just kept on going home, where I stayed.

We had talked about going to the Boulder Creek Fest today, but my daughter had to work, and XS and her friend went to the high school graduation to watch their friends walk. The sun was unreasonably bright, and downtown Boulder was stupidly crowded. I was thrilled not to have to go back and fight a crowd in the heat.

My intention had been to pull out some of the stories I started writing over the last couple years, and attack them anew, with outlines and story boards and a detailed plan of action. I found the first story that I have had on my mind for weeks now, the one I promised myself would be the prize for getting through the overwhelmingly busy quarter I just completed, and I opened a couple of packs of sticky notes of varying sizes, ready to start the story board. I wrote out one character's pages, and everything went sideways from there. For my character I had used the name of one of my old language arts teachers from middle school, and I let myself get distracted googling her to see whether I could find her picture online (found her name repeatedly, but no photos yet). The house was too quiet while I worked, so I started playing more podcasts on how to write quickly. The net effect was to slow me down, and then to send me off on a whole new tangent.

Listening to the podcast, produced by three authors who frequently work collaboratively, one author jokingly combined the names of the other two to describe the works they do togther. In a flash, that name crystalized in my head in an entirely different context and spelling, not as a bro-ship of two male authors, but as a girl. In a nanosecond, I saw her face, her build, her family, her conflict, but not her journey. I quickly scribbled down the basics on a sticky note, and tried to go back to the work I had barely begun on the older story. But I couldn't stop thinking about the girl. I went to sit in the hot tub and drink a glass of wine, still listening to the short episodes of this podcast. One of the five minute episodes was on how much fun it was to write a serial killer. That's when my beleaguered girl asked to become an anti-hero. I have miles to go before I can tell her story properly, but this girl desperately wants me to start. I think I'll be sleeping with a pack of sticky notes and a pencil next to me on the bed.

Who's That Girl?

Inspirational song: Dirty Little Secret (All-American Rejects)

Okay, I think I can let my little secret out now. I waited five whole days, to make sure that this time it was going to work before I announced the latest arrival. Last month, I tried to get a partner for Bruno, my widower lizard, and the tiny little anole I got was injured on her way out of the pet store cage. She died barely three days after I brought her home. I was so afraid it would happen again, I made Bruno live by himself for several weeks while I agonized over what to do. He had been getting noticeably more lonely and depressed, spending most of his time hiding in the back corner of the tank, out of sight. So Monday, after my daughter cut my hair and then I took her to lunch as a thank you, we swung by PetSmart on our way back from Mad Greens. I was only intending to buy crickets, but they didn't have any. Before I left the store, I stopped to check what sorts of tiny lizards were available. They had the freaky Bahamain ones, and the long tail ones that look mean to me. The collection of anoles that was there last time I looked had dwindled down to one tiny female hiding in the exact same spot where Charlotte of a Few Days was when the shop girl retrieved her for me, injuring her with an "oops." I told the same store employee what had happened last time, and pleaded with her to be super gentle pulling the new anole out of the tank this time. Best we could tell, this one did fine in the retrieval process, although she had crossed her toes funny in the transportation cup, and I worried anew that she would have a broken foot and not hunt successfully. Thankfully, she was intact and agile.

I had begun to doubt my assumptions on whether Bruno was really born a boy, or was he just a sturdy female lizard, a Brun Hilda maybe. I had never seen him puff out a neck flare or do anything other than hold Agnes' hand (although she was sort of an old lady, so maybe he just treated her with respect and didn't think of her "that way.") He was freaked out by Charlotte, who had a visible injury where her pelvis was squished, even though I wasn't sure that's what had happened until it was far too late. So when I put the new anole in the cage, I kind of held my breath and waited for initial contact. He didn't notice her until she was about four or five inches away on the big stick in the cage. Then he sat up straight and looked her over with a side-eye. Then, in a fabulous display of his manly beauty, he puffed out a neck flare to beat all neck flares. I had confirmation. Definitely a boy. And definitely interested in the pretty new girl who had just moved into his building.

So now, five days later, I have seen the new lizard properly hunt and polish off a fresh cricket, and I've seen her molt. She is healthy, and she has been introduced to her tankmate. They seem to get on well, although I haven't seen the cuddling on the lizard ladder, tails entwined like Bruno and Agnes did. I'll give them time to develop a relationship before I expect public displays of affection like that. Without further delay, allow me to present my newest friend and roommate: Dahlia.

Opium Den

Inspirational song: School's Out (Alice Cooper)

XS went to school for all of three hours and ten minutes today. By the time I picked her up, just before 11 this morning, she was done with her year in American high school. I expected her to be bouncy and triumphant. Instead her shoulders slumped, and she admitted to being close to tears repeatedly while she told everyone goodbye. We got home, and sat across from each other in the living room. She looked at me and asked dramatically, why aren't you upset too? Without going into the details of resting bitch face, or the side effects of Botox for migraine, I postulated that maybe I'd gone through this sort of thing so often that it didn't occur to me to be alarmed. She didn't seem convinced, as I had never done a year abroad by myself in a foreign country when I was 17, but I assured her that I have had to move away from peer groups, good jobs, and home towns more times than she could imagine. I'm not great at keeping in touch with everyone I've left or who has left me, from being a child of an air force family, a young person who went to college out of state, and a matriarch of my very own air force family. These partings are indeed hard, and I am not the person to downplay the very real emotions that XS is feeling. I just can't overreact to it like I've never seen this before. She should take comfort that her year abroad came during an age of such spectacular technology that staying in touch will be ridiculously easy compared to how it would have been when I was 17. If she doesn't share photos, calls, and video chats with her buddies from this year, to grow old together even from great distance, that will be no one's failings but their own.

As we all came down from the drama of the last day of school, and stress started to fall out of our pores, hard core relaxing was the order of the day. I only ("only") had a 45 minute nap, but two trips to the hot tub. XS napped twice, and spent hours and hours with her new best friend from Finland (one of the other exchange students in town -- I may get to meet a third one this weekend). The Mr took a recovery day from his trip to take care of our rental house out of state, but still managed to work in the yard and get way more done than we girls did. The cats got to play outside in the sun, but were lured back inside with giant stalks of the fresh catnip that threatens to take over the raised bed where I had been growing strawberries and kitchen sage. Within a few minutes, my living room carpet looked like all those turn of the 20th century paintings they used to make romanticizing opium dens. I kind of expect the next several days to follow in this vein.

Humblebrag

Inspirational song: Blow Away (George Harrison)

At various points in time, it is worth pausing to appreciate accomplishments and to celebrate as a group when that group has done something really special. Today our Rotary group did exactly that -- we are very proud of what we have done, and the leaders of our club decided to reward members and acknowledge a very special tally. In 99 years, our club has given a grand total of more than $700,000 to the Rotary International Foundation, the primary charitable giving arm of the worldwide club. This is not the portion of our dues that goes up the food chain, for regular club functions. This is all voluntary donation, above and beyond dues, for the purpose of good works. The money we give to the foundation goes there for three years, to be circulated and used for projects as well as to collect interest that further funds our activities. Then after three years, we can submit grant requests to bring it back to local needs, so these donations have twice the impact. Our club has existed for a very long time, but the town itself is not exactly a large metropolis. A high six figure tally is something to be proud of. These are generous people, and I count myself fortunate to be a member alongside them. So far, I've barely given 300 bucks (I think I've hit that mark -- I'd have to check). Some people in our club have given three, four, or even five thousand over their professional lives. How many polio vaccines does that work out to? How many water purification stations? How many children got school supplies or new tablets for that? How many books were donated? This is why I joined Rotary. I wasn't looking to schmooze and trade business cards. I wanted to be part of a group that did things that matter. These people change lives, on a global scale.

The social tonight was at the home of a realtor who is much more successful in that field than I. (She's also gorgeous and cool and has a neat family, but that's beside the point.) We've been to her place a few times for parties. The club provided barbecue and wine, and as usual when dinner and booze are free, turnout was pretty good. Everyone I talked to seemed to be in good spirits. Conversation was lively, and I had almost forgotten the point of the party until the foundation committee people got up and made an announcement that included the exact total of RI donations (I forget the specific number) and thanked everyone for their dedication. And then they started handing out pieces of cake. You know, I was okay skipping the bread that was there for BBQ sandwiches, and I looked suspiciously at the cream corn that I'm fairly certain had a bechemel sauce (so I didn't go near it), but when they brought out the white cake with raspberry filling, I nearly cried. It looked so good, even if it did have that intense blue icing that stains everyone's lips. I miss being a low-maintenance party guest.

XS and I didn't stay late at the party. It was game night, and I had to come home and host my own regular gathering. On the way there, XS said that the home where we were going was one of her possible host families, and I told her that the house was incredibly lovely, and the family is awesome, so she could see what she missed out on when she came to live with me instead. And I told her that I'm glad I ended up with her. I'm not as professionally successful as the other realtor, but I'm laid back and I think I'm pretty damned good at raising daughters, if I say so myself. I think XS fits in well with me, and she said she liked living with me too. We get each other. Still, as we walked around the house that reminded me of my friends' homes in Charleston, she pointed out things she liked and things she didn't. I have deck envy over this house, and I have for two years, and I still want to copy her and dig a deep koi pond in my yard. I don't think I could put in a chandelier like the one she has, but that doesn't stop me from longing for one just like hers. The houses in her trendy neighborhood are close together, with really small yards, but I think it just makes the area seem more like the military bases I lived on than anything, and I mean that in a good way (as in close-knit, family-friendly). All the same, I'm happy where I am, and I am still not looking to move again, ever. We had fun seeing how the other half lives.

Uncharged

Inspirational song: Mad World (Postmodern Jukebox featuring Puddles Pity Party and Haley Reinhart)

It's going on three hours now since I came into my room, waiting for inspiration to strike. Somewhere in the middle of the day I ran out of gas, and I never found any more to keep me going. Nothing happened to change the trajectory of my day. I just hit a wall and stopped moving. I was doing okay at first, but by the time Rotary was over, all I wanted to do was sit around and eat chocolate, and not much else. (Confession: I did stop by Ziggi's coffee to get one of their excellent gluten free chocolate donuts on the way home from Rotary. How many weeks in a row can I be expected to stare at a plateful of brownies and cookies in the middle of the tables, and know I can never touch one? I was weak, today, after about 120 weeks of this torture.)

It was a weird day. First thing this morning after dropping XS off for one of her last days of American high school, I came home and watered the flower beds. It looked like it was going to be a scorching hot day. It stayed that way through early afternoon when she wandered back to the aforementioned coffee shop to study for her trigonometry final. Then, without warning (meaning I didn't check the weather forecast), a massive storm rolled through. My kids all posted videos of the first wave of hail when it came through. There were subsequent ones, mixed in with the successive lines of strong storms. It was quite the weather event, knocking out my satellite TV feed and sending Alfred hiding in the basement. When I saw how flooded the back yard was, I was glad that my dogs were out of town, and not splashing around the puddles of mud. Murray is nice enough most of the time, but I swear that dog is literally not smart enough to come in out of the rain. At least Elsa likes to hide on her bed three quarters of the day. Just like her mommy.

Ready for Summer

Inspirational song: Entangled (Genesis)

Part of my family has gone on an excursion. The Mr and Murray and Elsa went on a drive, with a couple of overnights out of town. Things are a little quieter around here for now. That is, it's quiet except for a passel of cats who still like to tear things up to make sure they never get bored, and for the teenager who is three days away from ending her school term abroad. She gets to stay in town for several weeks yet, but it will be much better when her time is 100% her own. She'll get to sleep in as often as she likes, and we'll be able to take off and do things during the week to expand her American experience. We are hoping that before she leaves we can make it to the Great Sand Dunes national monument, but that's still up in the air. She also needs to go up to our mountain property, which she has not done yet. I think she'll really enjoy that.

I may have mentioned before how ironic it is that after years of being horrified when my younger daughter cut her own hair at inopportune times, like four weeks before her kindergarten photos when she "got tired of waiting for you to cut my bangs, mommy, so I cut them off," that now we go to her for haircuts. I can't begin to count how many times I looked at that kid and had to ask when and why she chopped off chunks of her hair. Yet here I was today, for the third or fourth time in the last year or so, asking her when she was coming over to trim my hair. It had gotten super long, such that it was constantly getting tangled up in my purse straps, or trapped under my arms when I tried to roll over in bed at night. It was too heavy, and when I put it up in a messy bun (most days), it was so heavy that it pulled on my scalp and gave me headaches. Also, the mermaid hair colors were fun, but after five months, the green absolutely refused to fade, even when I covered it with more purple, and I was ready to be done with it. I asked my kid to cut about two and a half inches, to get most of the color off, and make it a little lighter. I wore a horizontal striped shirt so that she had a gauge to keep it level. And then I just sat there and let her do what she wanted to do. I told her it felt like she was cutting it above my shoulders every time the razor scraped across the strands. She assured me she wasn't. Then she said, okay, feel that and tell me what you think. Funny, 2.5 inches turned into about 6.5 when I wasn't looking. I'm not saying the haircut looks bad, but it sure was a shock to find my hair is less than a hand-width below my shoulders. (If my friend from high school ever reads this, the friend who let me and another girl cut all of her hair off when we were trying to make it look like a picture in Seventeen magazine, I suspect she will feel some sense of revenge...) I'm not upset about my hair. I'm just surprised. And the way I look at it, it's the right length for summer. It's lighter and curlier now. Besides, it's hair. It will grow back. I just need to get used to having it so short again.

Nipped

Inspirational song: Tell Me Lies (Fleetwood Mac)

I tried something new this evening. I should have done this before. I went scrolling through random podcasts, in search of fiction. Before, I’ve only listened to political podcasts or interviews with celebrities or some other interesting sort of person. Years ago I tried some app that might have been a free demo of audible, but the book I chose was horrible and I questioned why I ever bothered before a chapter was up. That was the last time I intentionally sought out fiction to listen to. What a mistake that was. Just like the old days when I would stumble upon a well-crafted story on NPR while driving cross country (and invariably lose signal before the ending), I found a podcast that reads short stories. I scrolled to the bottom of the list, and selected the oldest one available. I decided if I liked it, I would work my way newer each time. The story I heard was science fiction, about an artist who lives in a world where virtual reality was replaced by “reality” that was still computer simulated, but so ubiquitous that almost no one lived “for real” anymore. He moved between his real world Parisian tenement, virtual visitations by his long-dead wife, and the Musee d’Orsay where he seemed to have an intimate relationship with the figures in paintings. I really enjoyed listening to it, except for the occasional sour note when the woman reading it would mispronounce words here and there. I’ll be doing this again, and soon.

Things have slowed down at the Park, but not because we necessarily wanted them to. Friday, we sent XS to a Rotary weekend in Denver, and between the two of us left, we slept most of the day away. For once, I’m not the one who has it worse. I’m feeling wiped out, sure, but the Mr looks like he has a full-blown flu. I’m gonna try to sleep off whatever I have as much as possible. I hope he does the same.

While I was listening to my Parisian artist story, he was pouring catnip on the rug in the dining room. Suddenly all the little junkies showed up to play, and within seconds, there was a rumble on the street corner. And the story changes as the angle of the camera changes. Where from overhead it looks just like Athena and Harvey chilling out, rubbing catnip all over their faces, if one pans down to the side, the look of abject terror on Harvey's face at the idea of Athena getting intoxicated five inches from his face is revealed.

Break

Inspirational song: Don't Do Me Like That (Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers)

For several months now, I've talked about the cabin that is very slowly taking shape up on the mountain property. Last fall we put in the foundation (mostly him, but I helped a tiny bit), and then it was covered in snow and progress halted. Over the winter and spring, while it was impossible to haul anything up the long road-less section, the Mr has been salvaging materials to build the tiny cabin. It's really just a shelter and storage shed, not an actual vacation home, so reclaimed lumber and steel will be perfect for the construction. Currently my garage is filled with long boards that still have nails and staples sticking out of them, stacks of used metal roofing, and rolls of underlayment. That wasn't enough. Now there's a rack of 2x6 (I think) tongue and groove lumber under the eave on the north side of the house, casting a shadow on my bathroom window that freaks me out every time I see it. There's more of this tongue and groove stuff next to my neighbor's house, waiting to have the nails pulled out of it, that needs to be moved while he's still tolerating its presence. Still not enough. Last week he found reclaimed redwood, which will be my daughter's new deck (with a bit of sanding). Today, I got a text that said, "I really need to stop going by salvage yards." He came back to get his truck and me, and we went back to the Restore Warehouse, by way of a salad restaurant. By the time we pulled up, he looked at the pile of lumber he had paid for and said, "It looks like someone went through it." He jumped out, and quickly noted that all but two of the twenty 2x4s he had purchased and stacked were gone. The other big stuff was still there. He grabbed the store employees and made them aware of the situation. They were sympathetic but not surprised that it happened. We took the boards that were left, and he said he would retrieve his receipt and come back. When we returned, he talked it over and got a different dimension of lumber in place of what he lost. He then walked around and looked at windows that had just come in. For not throwing a fit and being flexible about their colossal screwup, they were inclined to cut him a break on windows. He paid for one slider and they threw in a skylight for free. Honestly, that was a fantastic break. He explained the skylights are harder to find than I might have expected, and in the long run, 2x4s are replaceable. They did right by us by the end of the day.

I'm not ashamed to admit it. I watched the royal wedding. I didn't wake up at 4 am to do it, but I recorded it, and watched it over my coffee this morning. I've heard plenty of peole get their panties in a bunch, going on about "why should I care," or "the royal family are just [fill in the disparaging remark of choice}." They didn't have to watch, and they can take their grumpy attitudes with them when they leave me alone to enjoy it. The last few years have been such a rolling dumpster fire for me personally and for tons of people around the globe. This was a lovely little escape from grim reality, where we could all just look at the beautiful people and places, and derive a little vicarious pleasure from a young couple in love. I ate up the whole thing. I especially liked the way certain newspapers phrased their headlines, like "Northwestern graduate marries British guy" (Chicago Tribune) or "International human rights lawyer Amal Clooney arrived wearing a bright Stella McCartney yellow dress, with her husband alongside" (The Guardian). But weirdly, I think my very favorite part was the new Duchess of Sussex's makeup, or lack thereof. Her eyes were expertly yet gently done, but her skin was beautifully bare, with freckles showing, and if she wore lipstick, it was as natural a shade as could be. Is this a sign of a trend? If so, I've been riding that wave for years now. I've been rocking the moisturizer-and-eye-liner only look for at least five years now, probably longer. I didn't have to wait for a fashion trendsetter to be on point.

Humble View

Inspirational song: Norwegian Wood (The Beatles)

The Original Smith Park in Charleston was an amazing place to me. It was a quarter acre on a cul-de
-sac, and most of the property was the back yard. There were distinct zones, of hot sun, tall trees, shade garden, an unmowable swamp where we planted a weeping willow, deck surrounded by giant roses, azaleas, the biggest crape myrtle I’ve ever seen, and lots of places for me to tuck in different types of flowers everywhere. It was, quite honestly, more than I could handle by myself, but man, it was beautiful.

I knew that I couldn’t afford as much land when I moved to Colorado. Smith Park West cost roughly 70% more than the other place, but has about 3500 square feet less outdoor space. I wasn’t going to let that get me down, though. I’m more suited to a smaller yard. I can’t do it often, but I’m actually able to mow the grass at this place, as long as I do it in shifts, no more than half at a time. I want one of every sort of tree and flower, and I miss the warmer climate plants I loved so much, that made the old place so lush. I’m learning to embrace the flora that does better out here, like lilacs and cherry trees, columbines and peonies. They’re making up for my azaleas and plumbagos that I left behind.

While I waited to see where we would land in Colorado, I did dream a little about what sort of home I wanted. I didn’t end up with the architectural style or landscaping I imagined, but as I floated in the hot tub this rainy afternoon, I realized that I do have a little of the view I had dreamed of. I remember thinking I wanted some kind of tree that would have bark that was nearly black when it was wet, and leaves that would be bright yellow in the fall. It wasn’t actually in my yard, and it is spring not fall, but my neighbor’s tree that drapes over the shed we salvaged from his yard fits that bill exactly.

I was trying to frame a photo of that view, and it was so humble and plain, with weeds, some nursery pots, and the compost pile inescapable in it. I decided I was totally okay with that. I live a casual life, and I’m not about to pretend otherwise. I remembered leaving my rheumatologist yesterday, and taking in the view from the stoplight, over the abandoned sugar plant. The best views all around here are across industrial areas, like by the recycling center, or the bridge over the train tracks. There are fewer buildings and trees to impede the sight of the mountains.

If I had had my camera while in the hot tub this afternoon, I would have taken a video of the birds who were having way too much fun in the after effects of the rain. They were noisy and rambunctious. Then there was the one who really caught my eye. A little chickadee swooped in and landed on a sign I got from the Garden Deva in Tulsa, that hangs on a fishing line swivel. He hit the corner of my “God bless the freaks” sign, and it spun around in circles, while he rode it three or four times around, like that was his plan all along. It was too cute.

Ashy

Inspirational song: Runaround Sue (Dion)

I was sitting here in my overly warm, non-air-conditioned mid-century ranch home, thinking after a day like this that it was going to be another one of those summers, where we skip spring altogether and jump right into blazing hot, endlessly sunny days. I have been miserable driving around in the daytime this last week, with the sun scorching me. (Remember, the meds I take for lupus make my sun sensitivity worse, not better.) I was checking the 15 day forecast on my phone, before I started making sweeping pronouncements about how awful the summer was going to be, and then I watched the end of a news program. It was an innocuous story about Mount Kilauea erupting, and it triggered a memory that made me rethink my prediction.

Way back in the early 90s, I was a young mother, about to have my second baby, when Mount Pinatubo erupted in the Philippines. It was only of passing interest to me at the time. I had more immediate concerns. It wasn’t until months later that I realized the effect it was having on us, on the other side of the world. It filled the atmosphere with particulates of ash and sulfuric acid, and it lowered global temperatures for two years after eruption. I couldn’t tell you exactly which year it was now, maybe 1992 or 1993, but we had one of those “years without a summer” where it barely crested 90 degrees in Colorado, if it ever hit it at all. I remember hanging out in a park with friends at our regular Saturday gathering, and it was so cold and rainy in July that we were miserable and just wanted to go home.

Now I’m not saying that it will be as bad as the early 90s. I know Pinatubo was the second largest eruption since Krakatoa. I have no idea how big an eruption the Kilauea one will end up being. As it is, the blast today went up 30,000, to cruising altitude for commercial jets. Will there be more? Dunno. I am not a vulcanologist. Will it be enough to affect weather this summer? Dunno. I am also not a meteorologist. However, I am a middle-aged woman, who pays attention to such things as weather, and I have a reasonable suspicion that it just might make a difference. If this summer is a little hazier than usual, and a little cooler than usual, I will be totally fine with that. In a few weeks, I'll start watching the sunsets, to see whether they are as red and hazy as they were those months after Pinatubo, and I'll decide whether my folksy wisdom about the weather has any merit.

Getting Busy

Inspirational song: Take a Chance on Me (ABBA)

Is mid-August just that good of a time for young couples in love? There are an awful lot of birthdays this week. It’s my mom’s, and it’s the birthday of a friend from the library in North Dakota where I used to work. I invited my daughter over to join us for dinner, and she couldn’t because it was her ex-roommate’s birthday too. I had a special dinner planned, because Friday is our old college roommate’s birthday, and he will be on a trip to Eastern Europe, so we had to celebrate early. Calculating the math leads me to assume that the old song from Grease was on the money about those Hot Summer Nights.

I got creative with food today, knowing that it was a celebratory meal. I also didn’t want to go out to the store when I had plenty of food at the house, so I intentionally used only items I had in abundance. I thawed two packs of chicken from the freezer, plus four peaches from last year’s Rotary fundraiser (I froze them whole), and used a large handful of carrots (giant Costco bag), plus other veggies and a mess of Ras el Hanout seasoning to make a fusion American-Moroccan stew to pour over rice. I made a cheesecake (again, thank you to Costco for my abundance of ingredients). I found a standard recipe on Pinterest for a lemon blueberry one, but I had a giant bag of limes, so guess what kind I made? Also, when it called for a blueberry purée, I thought that was wasteful, so I dropped four handfuls of fresh blueberries into the batter, and it turned out perfectly. The crust was almond flour and brown sugar, with just a sprinkle of coconut flour, and it did right by me too. Mint leaves from the side of my house topped it off (when my attempt at writing my friend’s name in chocolate ganache on parchment failed to peel off the paper).

I couldn’t be with every single person who I value whose birthday was this week, but I promise to all of them, they’ve been on my mind, in a good way. There’s not enough energy to go around anymore, but I still care. I hope somehow they can feel that.