Thursday night: I’m at my sister’s house right now and cannot remember the WiFi password. She’s asleep, so I won’t bother her. Thank goodness for offline Google Docs. I can still write even when I can’t get online. Because wouldn’t it be the greatest of tragedies if you couldn't read this bilge? Too much to contemplate, I know--too great a potential literary loss.
Meanwhile, just about a year to the day after I wrote this, I found myself at the Gateway Pharmacy, once again singing along to Chicago ("Searching So Long") and contemplating the purchase of several different types of fancy soaps. I think I go there just for the music. And the soap, of course. I bought several, and I’m looking forward to a very clean January.
It's hard to believe that the holidays are drawing to a close. Every year, right around December 14, I panic at the rapid and inexorable approach of Christmas, just 10 or 11 days away, with so much of my shopping and baking and decorating yet to be done. And then it’s December 27, and mid-December seems ages ago; nowhere near Christmas. It’s still holidayish, especially here in the Philadelphia suburbs, where holiday nostalgia is a way of life. But the magic is wearing off. The post-Christmas sales already look ragged and picked-over and children are a little frantic, desperately wringing every drop of fun out of their waning Christmas vacation.
*****
Friday: We finally made some decisions on the Ireland trip; most importantly, what place other than Dublin to visit. Our original proposed itinerary had us in five different places in six days, and since I can barely manage to force myself out of the house most days, I suggested that we limit it a bit and try to minimize the driving and checking in and out of hotels and spend more time just being wherever we are. So we have a compromise.
The place other than Dublin is Kerry, and now there’s an additional layer of confusion because it appears that Kerry and Killarney might be the same place but I’m not 100% certain and I don’t want to be the person who asks. Later this weekend, I'll have an in-depth chat with Google and settle the matter. Meanwhile, I’m up to my eyeballs in picturesque Irish names and I’m feeling like I just can’t. I steered us away from a trip to Bunratty Castle because I object to the name Bunratty. That name conjures crowds of Boston and New York and Philadelphia tourists, festooned with claddagh jewelry and sentimental about their Irish roots. Not to mention the two rodents in one name. No thank you. I'm sure we will find another Irish castle. They have a lot of them in Ireland.
Saturday: We're back home now. Our house still feels very festive and Christmas-y, and we still have way too many snacks and treats. Just a few minutes ago, I was looking for another snack. I found a half-empty bag of tortilla chips from last weekend, when we had friends over to watch the sad sad Redskins game. The bag has a clear window in the front, and the words "Great at Parties," with an arrow pointing toward the window.
I thought about that little arrow. Was it meant to prove that there are, in fact, chips in the bag? Or that these particular chips have a special quality that makes them better for parties than other chips? Maybe the consumer is meant to watch these chips in action, on their best party behavior, vying for attention. "Invite me to your party," a chip will exclaim, "and I won't ask to take over the music selection!" A second chip will chime in. "Invite me to your party! I won't say ONE WORD about Trump." Then a third. "Invite me to your party! I won't double dip. I won't even single dip. I'm a chip. I stay away from dip altogether."
I don't make New Year's resolutions, but as I listened to the imaginary chip chatter, I realized that I'd better at least resolve not to eat everything that doesn't move, as I've been doing for the past few days.I put the chips away, and got some carrots instead. Carrots are quiet. They keep to themselves.
Sunday: I suppose I do make resolutions. I resolved to stop eating junk; and then I also resolved to stop spending so much money. Five minutes later, I spent $150 at Ikea's post-Christmas sale. I went there for a lamp.
I just finished a book that I liked much better than I expected to. My Paris Dream, by fashion writer and editor Kate Betts, is kind of a memoir of Paris in the late 80s and early 90s, but it's more the story of Kate Betts' life and career, told through fashion. My Paris Dream is very different from The Long-Winded Lady, another memoir of a city. Kate Betts takes a broad view of Paris. She doesn't describe much, though the passing details that she does share are vivid and memorable. Her Paris is alive with characters and personalities, and her life there was so fast-paced and achievement-driven that she didn't have time for close observation of physical detail.
Though the books are quite different, My Paris Dream reminded me of The Long-Winded Lady. Unlike the Paris that Kate Betts wrote about, Maeve Brennan's New York seems a very lonely place, populated only by strangers whom Brennan observed from a distance. But Brennan was very intimately acquainted with her tiny corner of the city, and makes the reader share her feeling of loss every time a building comes down or a restaurant closes or a quiet residential street is taken over by office buildings. Both My Paris Dream and The Long-Winded Lady were written by women who crossed an ocean to find the city that would shape their lives.
After Paris, I was at loose ends, deciding what to read next. I'm now three stories into Graham Greene's 21 Stories, and I'm completely absorbed. Our Man in Havana is the only other Graham Greene I've ever read, and the stories aren't quite as good as that, but they're very good.
It's the last day of the year, so this will be my last book for 2018, and my last blog post, too. This post isn't really finished yet, but I don't want to start a post in one year and finish it in another. Happy New Year.
Monday, December 31, 2018
Thursday, December 27, 2018
Process improvement
Saturday: Process improvement is a big part of the work we do on our government contract. That's actually the case on most government contracts. The Feds love nothing more than to have people tell them what to do, and how to do it, so that's what we do all day. It pays the bills.
Naturally, I have been thinking about how I might apply process improvement principles to other areas of life--cookies, for instance. If I, with limited knowledge, can help to improve IT management processes, then why can't I improve cookie baking, a process about which I know quite a bit? Yes, it's cookie-making day; and if you have been hanging around here for any length of time, then you know how I feel about cookie-making day.
Back to the process improvement. Last night I thought that it might be a good idea to make the dough (the worst part of cookie-making) and refrigerate it, so that I'd then have only the baking part to do today. That was one of the best ideas I have ever had. Then, on the recommendation of my cousin, I bought a melon-baller to scoop out the cookie dough. Genius! I had also already bought additional cooling racks, and two of the largest cookie sheets I've ever seen. They just fit into the oven, and can easily accommodate 36 cookies each, so I can put 6 dozen cookies in the oven at one time. So with pre-made dough, a kitchen full of cooling racks, giant baking sheets, and a melon-baller, baking time was just about two quite painless hours. The last batch is in the oven now. See you next year, cookies. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.
*****
Sunday: It's December 23; or Christmas Adam, as we like to call it. I'm on vacation now, kind of. I still have some work to do, but I won't actually return to the office until January 2. I hope that the shutdown will be over by then; but if not, I hope that the President is stuck in Washington for the whole week. Vindictive, aren't I?
I overindulged in cookies yesterday, so I'm sticking with fruit today. Actually, I only ate two cookies yesterday, but I ate the equivalent of at least a dozen more in cookie dough. The CDC says that I should avoid cookie dough like fentanyl or second-hand smoke, but what do they know?
Maybe we SHOULD shut the government down. I mean, really.
So today, I'm substituting clementines for cookies. I love clementines. They're very Christmas-y to those of us who grew up at a time when certain fruits were only available in season.
When I was very young, I lived in a tiny apartment in my hometown of Philadelphia. I worked for a printing company at 9th and Arch, right around the corner from Reading Terminal Market, where we often went for lunch. I used to go there after work, too, to buy fruit and Italian bread and cheese that I would carry home on the subway, feeling very grown-up and independent with my gourmet groceries.
Clementines were new to me. At that time, they were only available in December and January, but we never had them at home. It was the early 80s, and neighborhood supermarkets didn't have much variety in produce. Iceberg lettuce, broccoli and corn, white potatoes, carrots and onions, and fruit--oranges, apples, bananas, and grapes, with strawberries and peaches and cherries in the summer. The Reading Terminal Market clementines in their cute little wooden crates were a novelty. I hated winter then just as much as I do now, and clementines tasted like warmth and sunshine. Plus, I had leftover teenage acne that persisted into my twenties, and I was convinced that clementines had an astringent effect.
*****
It's Christmas Eve, and we have no real plans other than Mass at 6 PM and an 8 PM showing of "Vice." We like going to movies on Christmas Eve, and this was the only one that we could all agree on. Needless to say, the J-Lo sexy middle aged lady romantic comedy was not among the options. Zero stars.
I worked this morning, though I was technically supposed to be on vacation. Now, I'm going to just eat another clementine, and maybe a cookie or two, and watch "The Family Stone," another of my favorite bad movies. Tomorrow, we will open presents and eat ham and sit by the fire and stuff ourselves with cookies and do everything else that 21st century middle-class Americans do to celebrate the birth of the Savior.
*****
Wednesday: It was a lovely Christmas. Now it's December 26, and we're deep into Christmas vacation mode. I worked again this morning, but only for a little while. Then we went to the Renwick Gallery, and walked around President's Park and the Ellipse. We hadn't been to see the National Christmas Tree since 2014 or so, but we used to go every year when our children were little. "This is the most nostalgic thing ever," said my 17-year-old as they posed for the obligatory picture.
It was a beautiful day, sunny and winter-mild; just chilly enough that I needed a coat (because I always need a coat) but not so warm that it was too hot to walk around wearing it. The streets were crowded with other families on Christmas vacation, visiting museums and drinking coffee from holiday-themed Starbucks cups and taking pictures in front of the White House fence. We walked to Chinatown for a late lunch at our favorite pub, and then came home after dark. It's 10:30 PM now, and we just finished some leftovers in front of "Good Will Hunting" on Netflix.
We have been working very hard lately. Even on days off, we're very busy. Even on vacation, we tend to stick to a routine. A few days of actual stay up late, eat whatever (and whenver), go places just for the sake of going, watch bad movies, bona fide vacation is exactly the thing.
Next week, I'll return to waking up early and sticking to the plan and improving the process. Hopefully, the government will come to its senses and reopen the parts that are closed. But that's next week. Right now, I think I'll have another cookie.
Naturally, I have been thinking about how I might apply process improvement principles to other areas of life--cookies, for instance. If I, with limited knowledge, can help to improve IT management processes, then why can't I improve cookie baking, a process about which I know quite a bit? Yes, it's cookie-making day; and if you have been hanging around here for any length of time, then you know how I feel about cookie-making day.
*****
Sunday: It's December 23; or Christmas Adam, as we like to call it. I'm on vacation now, kind of. I still have some work to do, but I won't actually return to the office until January 2. I hope that the shutdown will be over by then; but if not, I hope that the President is stuck in Washington for the whole week. Vindictive, aren't I?
I overindulged in cookies yesterday, so I'm sticking with fruit today. Actually, I only ate two cookies yesterday, but I ate the equivalent of at least a dozen more in cookie dough. The CDC says that I should avoid cookie dough like fentanyl or second-hand smoke, but what do they know?
Maybe we SHOULD shut the government down. I mean, really.
So today, I'm substituting clementines for cookies. I love clementines. They're very Christmas-y to those of us who grew up at a time when certain fruits were only available in season.
When I was very young, I lived in a tiny apartment in my hometown of Philadelphia. I worked for a printing company at 9th and Arch, right around the corner from Reading Terminal Market, where we often went for lunch. I used to go there after work, too, to buy fruit and Italian bread and cheese that I would carry home on the subway, feeling very grown-up and independent with my gourmet groceries.
Clementines were new to me. At that time, they were only available in December and January, but we never had them at home. It was the early 80s, and neighborhood supermarkets didn't have much variety in produce. Iceberg lettuce, broccoli and corn, white potatoes, carrots and onions, and fruit--oranges, apples, bananas, and grapes, with strawberries and peaches and cherries in the summer. The Reading Terminal Market clementines in their cute little wooden crates were a novelty. I hated winter then just as much as I do now, and clementines tasted like warmth and sunshine. Plus, I had leftover teenage acne that persisted into my twenties, and I was convinced that clementines had an astringent effect.
*****
It's Christmas Eve, and we have no real plans other than Mass at 6 PM and an 8 PM showing of "Vice." We like going to movies on Christmas Eve, and this was the only one that we could all agree on. Needless to say, the J-Lo sexy middle aged lady romantic comedy was not among the options. Zero stars.
I worked this morning, though I was technically supposed to be on vacation. Now, I'm going to just eat another clementine, and maybe a cookie or two, and watch "The Family Stone," another of my favorite bad movies. Tomorrow, we will open presents and eat ham and sit by the fire and stuff ourselves with cookies and do everything else that 21st century middle-class Americans do to celebrate the birth of the Savior.
*****
Wednesday: It was a lovely Christmas. Now it's December 26, and we're deep into Christmas vacation mode. I worked again this morning, but only for a little while. Then we went to the Renwick Gallery, and walked around President's Park and the Ellipse. We hadn't been to see the National Christmas Tree since 2014 or so, but we used to go every year when our children were little. "This is the most nostalgic thing ever," said my 17-year-old as they posed for the obligatory picture.
 |
| They're wearing Christmas presents. |
We have been working very hard lately. Even on days off, we're very busy. Even on vacation, we tend to stick to a routine. A few days of actual stay up late, eat whatever (and whenver), go places just for the sake of going, watch bad movies, bona fide vacation is exactly the thing.
Next week, I'll return to waking up early and sticking to the plan and improving the process. Hopefully, the government will come to its senses and reopen the parts that are closed. But that's next week. Right now, I think I'll have another cookie.
Friday, December 21, 2018
Hello, Mexico? Yeah, this is Accounts Receivable...
Monday: As I've mentioned before, I don't write movie reviews. Only sometimes, I do. And here's a review of a movie that I have not seen and plan never to see. Not only am I not going to see this movie; I'm not even going to look at any reviews or plot summaries. I'm judging it entirely on the TV commercial that I saw yesterday. "Second Act" gets zero stars out of whatever number of stars my rating scale would have, if I had one.
My opposition to "Second Act" has nothing to do with the fact that it looks like a bad movie. As I've written before, I have a special place in my heart for lots of bad movies. And I don't object to Jennifer Lopez, either. She's fine. What I do object to is the kill-me-now boring "I am middle-aged-but-still-sexy-woman-hear-me-roar" trope. Tiresome. So so so so tiresome.
The idea of a woman entering her "second act" (what the fuck) just as beautiful and sexy as she was at age 25, but with all the wisdom (whatever) of middle age is supposed to be liberating and "empowering" (OMG, kill me) but it's exactly the opposite. It's not enough for a 50-year-old woman to be accomplished or wise or kind or nurturing or powerful or successful or all of the above She also has to be beautiful; and I don't mean the kind of beauty that older women who know how to live radiate from within. No, I mean Maxim magazine (does that still exist?) MILF hotness.
Gag.
And you know what else? There's no corporate job interview scenario in which a person can fake a Harvard degree. It's 2018, and anyone who is interviewing Harvard graduates, real or fake, has access to the Internet. I mean really.
Zero stars. Zero.
*****
Tuesday: The carpet people are coming tomorrow. One more day of living in a construction zone; one more day until I can return my house to its customary orderly state.
I'm quite happy about the carpet, but quite sad about the untimely death of my favorite Instagram cat. Yes, I know. But this was an especially cute cat, who had a cat stroke at only four years of age. This cat's Instagram feed was one of the funniest things online, and created for the best reason--because the cat's owner thought her cat was amusing, and she wanted to share the fun.
There are lots of reasons to worry about the meanness and emptiness of the social media landscape, but an Instagram community built on shared enjoyment of a mischievous cat and his hilariously captioned silly photos and videos strikes me as a great use of the Internet. I'll miss him.
*****
Wednesday: Question for a person who is reshelving books: Among a pile of books of similar size, which book's authors (other than Muriel Spark, who already has her own shelf) might be worthy to share a shelf with Flannery O'Connor?
A. Evelyn Waugh
B. Nathaniel Hawthorne
C. Penelope Fitzgerald
Trick question. The answer is no one.
Reshelving books is like solving a puzzle, and I'm terrible at puzzles. I should taken a picture before I cleared off the bookcases, but the books are all back on the shelves now, in the bookcases that are back where they belong, because my house is back in order again.
This was actually an extra-good day because I also won my company'e Employee of the Year award. I felt like SpongeBob. That's my face on the wall, twelve times in a row.
*****
Friday, December 21. Four days before Christmas and here we go again.
You know what? I think they should give him his stupid wall. There's nothing inherently wrong about a wall. If a border between countries is reasonable, then why not secure it with a wall? Lots of countries do it.
I think we should be much more generous to refugees and asylum-seekers and really almost everyone else who wants to come to this country. We're the richest country in the world. We can share. So build the wall, and then use it to manage the influx in an orderly fashion.
It would be nice if it was that simple, wouldn't it?
My work friends and I are off the hook for this one. I'm on vacation next week, and even if it continues past New Year's Day, our project is funded, so we can continue working. About 25% of Federal contractors, who don't get back pay after the shutdown ends, are not so lucky.
Maybe they'll figure this out quickly. Or maybe Mexico will open its mail--they might have missed our last bill.
Meanwhile, Merry Christmas.
My opposition to "Second Act" has nothing to do with the fact that it looks like a bad movie. As I've written before, I have a special place in my heart for lots of bad movies. And I don't object to Jennifer Lopez, either. She's fine. What I do object to is the kill-me-now boring "I am middle-aged-but-still-sexy-woman-hear-me-roar" trope. Tiresome. So so so so tiresome.
The idea of a woman entering her "second act" (what the fuck) just as beautiful and sexy as she was at age 25, but with all the wisdom (whatever) of middle age is supposed to be liberating and "empowering" (OMG, kill me) but it's exactly the opposite. It's not enough for a 50-year-old woman to be accomplished or wise or kind or nurturing or powerful or successful or all of the above She also has to be beautiful; and I don't mean the kind of beauty that older women who know how to live radiate from within. No, I mean Maxim magazine (does that still exist?) MILF hotness.
Gag.
And you know what else? There's no corporate job interview scenario in which a person can fake a Harvard degree. It's 2018, and anyone who is interviewing Harvard graduates, real or fake, has access to the Internet. I mean really.
Zero stars. Zero.
*****
Tuesday: The carpet people are coming tomorrow. One more day of living in a construction zone; one more day until I can return my house to its customary orderly state.
I'm quite happy about the carpet, but quite sad about the untimely death of my favorite Instagram cat. Yes, I know. But this was an especially cute cat, who had a cat stroke at only four years of age. This cat's Instagram feed was one of the funniest things online, and created for the best reason--because the cat's owner thought her cat was amusing, and she wanted to share the fun.
There are lots of reasons to worry about the meanness and emptiness of the social media landscape, but an Instagram community built on shared enjoyment of a mischievous cat and his hilariously captioned silly photos and videos strikes me as a great use of the Internet. I'll miss him.
*****
Wednesday: Question for a person who is reshelving books: Among a pile of books of similar size, which book's authors (other than Muriel Spark, who already has her own shelf) might be worthy to share a shelf with Flannery O'Connor?
A. Evelyn Waugh
B. Nathaniel Hawthorne
C. Penelope Fitzgerald
Trick question. The answer is no one.
Reshelving books is like solving a puzzle, and I'm terrible at puzzles. I should taken a picture before I cleared off the bookcases, but the books are all back on the shelves now, in the bookcases that are back where they belong, because my house is back in order again.
This was actually an extra-good day because I also won my company'e Employee of the Year award. I felt like SpongeBob. That's my face on the wall, twelve times in a row.
 |
| Suck it, Squidward. |
*****
Friday, December 21. Four days before Christmas and here we go again.
You know what? I think they should give him his stupid wall. There's nothing inherently wrong about a wall. If a border between countries is reasonable, then why not secure it with a wall? Lots of countries do it.
I think we should be much more generous to refugees and asylum-seekers and really almost everyone else who wants to come to this country. We're the richest country in the world. We can share. So build the wall, and then use it to manage the influx in an orderly fashion.
It would be nice if it was that simple, wouldn't it?
My work friends and I are off the hook for this one. I'm on vacation next week, and even if it continues past New Year's Day, our project is funded, so we can continue working. About 25% of Federal contractors, who don't get back pay after the shutdown ends, are not so lucky.
Maybe they'll figure this out quickly. Or maybe Mexico will open its mail--they might have missed our last bill.
Meanwhile, Merry Christmas.
Sunday, December 16, 2018
Where's the Tylenol?
You know what's a bad idea? I could give you a million, at least 100,000 of them born of personal experience; but here's one in particular. Ripping out carpet and installing new carpet two weeks before Christmas is a bad idea. A bad, bad idea.
In and of itself, of course, carpet installation is not a bad idea. Carpet is a one-day job, assuming that all goes according to plan. It's that "assuming" part that's complicated; that, and the "all going according to plan." Because you never know for sure what's under the old carpet until you rip it out.
You see where this is going, don't you? Remember when I wrote that I'd write again when my house was clean? Oh, the naivete. Right now, I have no carpet and no floor other than concrete in half the house, and the furniture is all jammed into the kitchen and two bedrooms. It's cold and dusty and cluttered. We can't even get to our beds.
Long story short(er), there was a problem with the old parquet that was under the carpet, so we had to rip it out. That was an easier job than I expected. But now we have to clean up the dust and glue and broken parquet, which is another day's worth of work. And the carpet installer is telling me that they can't come back until after Christmas, which I am supposed to host. I know that there are bigger problems than this, but this one seems bad enough right now. I don't like dirt and disorder and disruption and I'm neck-deep in all three. It's Christmas Vacation, and Cousin Eddie just pulled up in the RV.
And you know what? The shitter is full. The shitter is all the way full.
*****
It's the next day now, the next day being Wednesday. So yesterday was Tuesday. It's all a blur. We still have concrete floors in half of our house and furniture in places where God never designed it to go, but things are looking up a bit. My husband took today off and cleaned the floors, which were covered with dust and debris from yesterday's parquet removal adventure. We moved some furniture around, just enough that we can get in and out of the bedrooms. And the kitchen and family room are almost normal, so we have a little oasis of near-order and almost-calm. It's not my ideal household state, but it's a marked improvement over yesterday. Meanwhile, I'm working on gently persuading the carpet installers to try to find room for us in their busy busy schedule. I'm pretty persuasive; and what I lack in persuasion power, I make up for in persistence. I don't know when my house will be back to normal again, but I think it will happen before Santa shoves his fat white ass down the chimney.
*****
So it's Thursday now. I still don't have carpet but they might be able to move our installation date to next week. It's not tomorrow but it's not the day after Christmas either. It's an improvement. It's a move in the right direction. Progress.
I'm writing this on my phone as I stand in the main hallway at Rockville High School, waiting for the auditorium to open. It's concert night and the place is abuzz. Clusters of parents are chatting while young people in black concert dress zip back and forth, instruments in hand and sheet music trailing behind them. The snack bar is selling chips and soda and holiday treats and the booster club is selling raffle tickets. Prize: A Christmas wreath. I bought a ticket. I like wreaths. The auditorium opened, so I looked for my son's name in the program while the lights were still on, and then I found a seat.
It's Saturday now, 10 days before Christmas. After weeks of unseasonable and unreasonable cold, it's in the 50s, which would normally be a very good development. And I'm definitely happy not to be cold. But it's also pouring rain for the second day in a row and it's supposed to rain again all day tomorrow. Everything feels damp and the whole world looks gray and dirty and ragged around the edges. Not Christmas-y at all. Blah. Humbug.
Meanwhile, my house is still a flaming hot mess. I never realized before how much energy I get from being at home. Some people get their energy and creativity come from the outside world. But mine comes from family and familiar surroundings. Orderly surroundings. I woke up this morning and didn't know how to organize my day. Everything seemed out of sorts and it made me tired. Thank goodness for high school swim meets--part of the day was already planned for me, and all I had to do was to get up and out to where I needed to be. And the rest would sort itself out.
We have been sleeping in the spare room, which doesn't sound bad and it actually isn't. The dresser in there is piled high with books and the bed is hemmed in by bookcases and dressers and rolled up area rugs. You have to tunnel your way to the bed but once you get there it's quite cozy. I have been sleeping unusually well. The fortress of furniture makes the room darker and more conducive to sleep. But it's also because the unaccustomed disorder has left me more tired than usual. I'm a hothouse flower. A tired one.
It's Sunday now. I had hoped that the rest of yesterday would sort itself out, and it did. An unexpected last-minute babysitting request from my sister-in-law was just the thing. Toddlers are full of Christmas spirit. And we managed to reschedule the carpet installation, for Wednesday. So I only have to live amid chaos for a few more days. We're going to put the place back together and buy a Christmas tree and and have the hap- hap- happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby danced with Danny fucking Kaye.
In and of itself, of course, carpet installation is not a bad idea. Carpet is a one-day job, assuming that all goes according to plan. It's that "assuming" part that's complicated; that, and the "all going according to plan." Because you never know for sure what's under the old carpet until you rip it out.
You see where this is going, don't you? Remember when I wrote that I'd write again when my house was clean? Oh, the naivete. Right now, I have no carpet and no floor other than concrete in half the house, and the furniture is all jammed into the kitchen and two bedrooms. It's cold and dusty and cluttered. We can't even get to our beds.
Long story short(er), there was a problem with the old parquet that was under the carpet, so we had to rip it out. That was an easier job than I expected. But now we have to clean up the dust and glue and broken parquet, which is another day's worth of work. And the carpet installer is telling me that they can't come back until after Christmas, which I am supposed to host. I know that there are bigger problems than this, but this one seems bad enough right now. I don't like dirt and disorder and disruption and I'm neck-deep in all three. It's Christmas Vacation, and Cousin Eddie just pulled up in the RV.
And you know what? The shitter is full. The shitter is all the way full.
*****
It's the next day now, the next day being Wednesday. So yesterday was Tuesday. It's all a blur. We still have concrete floors in half of our house and furniture in places where God never designed it to go, but things are looking up a bit. My husband took today off and cleaned the floors, which were covered with dust and debris from yesterday's parquet removal adventure. We moved some furniture around, just enough that we can get in and out of the bedrooms. And the kitchen and family room are almost normal, so we have a little oasis of near-order and almost-calm. It's not my ideal household state, but it's a marked improvement over yesterday. Meanwhile, I'm working on gently persuading the carpet installers to try to find room for us in their busy busy schedule. I'm pretty persuasive; and what I lack in persuasion power, I make up for in persistence. I don't know when my house will be back to normal again, but I think it will happen before Santa shoves his fat white ass down the chimney.
*****
So it's Thursday now. I still don't have carpet but they might be able to move our installation date to next week. It's not tomorrow but it's not the day after Christmas either. It's an improvement. It's a move in the right direction. Progress.
I'm writing this on my phone as I stand in the main hallway at Rockville High School, waiting for the auditorium to open. It's concert night and the place is abuzz. Clusters of parents are chatting while young people in black concert dress zip back and forth, instruments in hand and sheet music trailing behind them. The snack bar is selling chips and soda and holiday treats and the booster club is selling raffle tickets. Prize: A Christmas wreath. I bought a ticket. I like wreaths. The auditorium opened, so I looked for my son's name in the program while the lights were still on, and then I found a seat.
*****
Meanwhile, my house is still a flaming hot mess. I never realized before how much energy I get from being at home. Some people get their energy and creativity come from the outside world. But mine comes from family and familiar surroundings. Orderly surroundings. I woke up this morning and didn't know how to organize my day. Everything seemed out of sorts and it made me tired. Thank goodness for high school swim meets--part of the day was already planned for me, and all I had to do was to get up and out to where I needed to be. And the rest would sort itself out.
We have been sleeping in the spare room, which doesn't sound bad and it actually isn't. The dresser in there is piled high with books and the bed is hemmed in by bookcases and dressers and rolled up area rugs. You have to tunnel your way to the bed but once you get there it's quite cozy. I have been sleeping unusually well. The fortress of furniture makes the room darker and more conducive to sleep. But it's also because the unaccustomed disorder has left me more tired than usual. I'm a hothouse flower. A tired one.
*****
Monday, December 10, 2018
Domestic affairs
Thursday: I worked from home yesterday. The federal government was closed for the Bush 41 day of mourning. So I worked on my couch, with Bush's funeral as background noise.
It was interesting to watch the first row. Much has already been written about the cold reception that President Trump received from most of the the other members of the club, now down to five members. I guess it's no better than he should have expected, but I'd have liked to see the others take the high road and welcome him with open arms. The magnanimous gesture would have been lost on him, of course, but that's not the point. The Obamas were polite, at least.
Aside from the Trump vs. everyone dynamic, it's always interesting to see former and current Presidents and First Ladies and other high-ranking people at events such as these, stuck in the rare position of having to sit and wait for something that has nothing to do with them. Trump arrived just before the service was to begin, but even he had to sit and wait for ten minutes, without fidgeting, without looking at his phone, without anything to do but to sit and try to look solemn and serious. I actually felt sorry for him. But none of the others looked comfortable either, except for Jimmy Carter, who at 94 has reached the point at which he no longer cares what anyone thinks, and no longer has enough time to waste on grudges or politics. Carter sat reading the program, looking calmly around, and waiting patiently for the service to begin. He seemed quite at ease.
*****
Friday: It's been a very busy week. I had planned, after I finished my work for today, to watch the first episode of the second season of "The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel." And then I found out that "84 Charing Cross Road" was on TV, and I had to stop what I was doing to watch it.
"84 Charing Cross Road" is based on the book of the same title, which I have never read. Helene Hanff was a freelance writer and publisher's reader who also loved books. During the years between 1949 and 1969, she wrote letters to the London bookshop that shipped books to her in New York. During those 20 years, she became close friends with the shop's staff. They exchanged letters and photos; and in the early years of their friendship, Helene sent them care packages of food and nylons and other luxuries that were extremely scarce in post-war England.
I love almost everything about this movie. It was made in 1987, a trash year for movies. Anne Bancroft stars as Helene Hanff, with Anthony Perkins as Frank Doel, the shop's manager. The costumes and sets are mid-century perfection; colors that are muted and bright all at once, and book-lined apartments, and beautiful wool coats and suits; and New York and London and the Queen. I wish people dressed like this still. I wish people acted like this still. I won't spoil the (sad but happy) ending. It would have helped me to know, in 1987, that such a beautiful and true friendship between a man and a woman was possible, and I wish I'd seen this movie then. But I'm glad I know about it now.
*****
Sunday: Yesterday, I refereed a high school swim meet in the morning, and then spent all afternoon Christmas shopping. Then I was just too tired to write anything; hence the skipped day.
I got home just as the light was fading. I love being home at that moment, no matter what time of day it occurs, but especially in the winter. I slept on the couch for a bit--only half an hour or so, but it was the kind of blackout sleep that feels like an entire winter night distilled and condensed into a few minutes. When I woke up, it was dark.
Then we went to a Christmas party. It's a Christmas party that we go to every year, where we see people whom we almost never see at any other time. And it's nice to see them, and after over 10 years, we joke that it's not Christmas until we see each other. It's the kind of party where the coats and handbags are piled on a bed, and the dining room table is spread with the same snacks and treats that the hosts serve every year, and the coolers of beer are on the deck, and people congregate in the kitchen and the partly finished basement where additional snacks and drinks await the guests who are in the know. It was a nice time. I'll see everyone next December.
*****
Monday: Well, the whole operation is a shambles right now. We're getting new carpet tomorrow, and you have to move stuff around to make room for the carpet layers. Because of the carpet installation, we're also a little later than usual with our Christmas tree. It's a mess, and I'll be breathing into a paper bag until this place is back in its customary order.
I have to work from home so that I can direct the proceedings. Fortunately, the room that I work in is not affected. I've never had carpet installed before, so I don't know what to expect other than a bunch of guys and some carpet and some furniture moving hither and yon. They're professionals, so I assume that they know what they're doing.
*****
I'm not going to have time to turn this into something readable, or to tie it together with any unifying theme. Last week, a state funeral was background noise for my workday; tomorrow, it will be carpet-laying sounds, assuming that carpet-laying has any distinctive sounds. I'll write again as soon as I have a clean house.
It was interesting to watch the first row. Much has already been written about the cold reception that President Trump received from most of the the other members of the club, now down to five members. I guess it's no better than he should have expected, but I'd have liked to see the others take the high road and welcome him with open arms. The magnanimous gesture would have been lost on him, of course, but that's not the point. The Obamas were polite, at least.
Aside from the Trump vs. everyone dynamic, it's always interesting to see former and current Presidents and First Ladies and other high-ranking people at events such as these, stuck in the rare position of having to sit and wait for something that has nothing to do with them. Trump arrived just before the service was to begin, but even he had to sit and wait for ten minutes, without fidgeting, without looking at his phone, without anything to do but to sit and try to look solemn and serious. I actually felt sorry for him. But none of the others looked comfortable either, except for Jimmy Carter, who at 94 has reached the point at which he no longer cares what anyone thinks, and no longer has enough time to waste on grudges or politics. Carter sat reading the program, looking calmly around, and waiting patiently for the service to begin. He seemed quite at ease.
*****
Friday: It's been a very busy week. I had planned, after I finished my work for today, to watch the first episode of the second season of "The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel." And then I found out that "84 Charing Cross Road" was on TV, and I had to stop what I was doing to watch it.
"84 Charing Cross Road" is based on the book of the same title, which I have never read. Helene Hanff was a freelance writer and publisher's reader who also loved books. During the years between 1949 and 1969, she wrote letters to the London bookshop that shipped books to her in New York. During those 20 years, she became close friends with the shop's staff. They exchanged letters and photos; and in the early years of their friendship, Helene sent them care packages of food and nylons and other luxuries that were extremely scarce in post-war England.
I love almost everything about this movie. It was made in 1987, a trash year for movies. Anne Bancroft stars as Helene Hanff, with Anthony Perkins as Frank Doel, the shop's manager. The costumes and sets are mid-century perfection; colors that are muted and bright all at once, and book-lined apartments, and beautiful wool coats and suits; and New York and London and the Queen. I wish people dressed like this still. I wish people acted like this still. I won't spoil the (sad but happy) ending. It would have helped me to know, in 1987, that such a beautiful and true friendship between a man and a woman was possible, and I wish I'd seen this movie then. But I'm glad I know about it now.
*****
Sunday: Yesterday, I refereed a high school swim meet in the morning, and then spent all afternoon Christmas shopping. Then I was just too tired to write anything; hence the skipped day.
I got home just as the light was fading. I love being home at that moment, no matter what time of day it occurs, but especially in the winter. I slept on the couch for a bit--only half an hour or so, but it was the kind of blackout sleep that feels like an entire winter night distilled and condensed into a few minutes. When I woke up, it was dark.
Then we went to a Christmas party. It's a Christmas party that we go to every year, where we see people whom we almost never see at any other time. And it's nice to see them, and after over 10 years, we joke that it's not Christmas until we see each other. It's the kind of party where the coats and handbags are piled on a bed, and the dining room table is spread with the same snacks and treats that the hosts serve every year, and the coolers of beer are on the deck, and people congregate in the kitchen and the partly finished basement where additional snacks and drinks await the guests who are in the know. It was a nice time. I'll see everyone next December.
*****
Monday: Well, the whole operation is a shambles right now. We're getting new carpet tomorrow, and you have to move stuff around to make room for the carpet layers. Because of the carpet installation, we're also a little later than usual with our Christmas tree. It's a mess, and I'll be breathing into a paper bag until this place is back in its customary order.
I have to work from home so that I can direct the proceedings. Fortunately, the room that I work in is not affected. I've never had carpet installed before, so I don't know what to expect other than a bunch of guys and some carpet and some furniture moving hither and yon. They're professionals, so I assume that they know what they're doing.
*****
I'm not going to have time to turn this into something readable, or to tie it together with any unifying theme. Last week, a state funeral was background noise for my workday; tomorrow, it will be carpet-laying sounds, assuming that carpet-laying has any distinctive sounds. I'll write again as soon as I have a clean house.
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
SIng with me
Friday: Last night, my sons and I were driving home from dinner and I found myself singing along with Aerosmith's "Dream On." This is a song that was already old when I was a teenager, and my snotty 18-year-old self would not have been caught dead singing along with it or any song like it, even if dead people could sing.
In fact, I am so completely not a fan of 70s classic rock that I wasn't even sure if "Dream On" was an Aerosmith or Led Zeppelin song, though I was pretty sure that it was one of the two. So I looked it up, and found that this question is a pretty common one. Go ahead and Google "Dream On Aerosmith." The suggested auto-fill options will include "Dream On Aerosmith or Led Zeppelin."
I sang along with my sons, wondering if the song is actually good, and I just never realized it before; or if I'm just developing a new appreciation for the things of my youth. I'm pretty sure it's the latter.
*****
Saturday: Did you know that Charles Mound, elevation approximately 1,200 feet, is the highest point in Illinois? The mountain range closest to Chicago is the Great Smoky range, over 500 miles distant. Have you ever looked this up? If so, was it because you were watching "Christmas Vacation," and you wondered how far the Chicago-based Griswolds would have had to drive to cut down a tree in the mountains?
No? Just me?
*****
It's December 1, so we're watching "Christmas Vacation." It's not my favorite Christmas movie, but my teenage sons love it so much that it's entered my top ten. I sing along to "Mele Kalikimaka," while my younger son whistles. He is an exceptionally good whistler, and I can carry a tune, so we sound pretty good. It's cozy here, and I have to say that we're the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.
*****
Diane Ladd played Chevy Chase's mother in "Christmas Vacation." They are eight years apart in age.
*****
Monday: Diane Ladd had to fake old ladyhood in "Christmas Vacation," but my Nana is the real thing. Nana looks very much like Aunt Bethany; though unlike poor Aunt Bethany, my grandmother is still as sharp as the proverbial tack. She might wrap up a cat and give it as a gift, but she'd do it on purpose. And you can trust me that if someone asked my Nana to say grace, she wouldn't confuse it with the Pledge of Allegiance, or with anything else.
She'd be quick about it, too. Like most Catholics of her generation, my grandmother is devout, but she doesn't waste time on long, flowery prayers. And she doesn't waste a lot of time on the phone, either; partly because she doesn't hear too well anymore, and because she doesn't like long phone calls. This is a sentiment that I share. I just spoke to Nana, to wish her a happy 95th birthday. It was a five-minute call.
*****
When you're 95, you watch as your spouse and siblings and friends and contemporaries die, one by one. My grandmother is lucky; she hasn't outlived her children, and her health is as good as a 95-year-old can expect. She had to give up driving about 10 years ago (and about five years after she should have); and she can't read any but the largest print anymore. And now she's outliving all of the greatest figures of her generation.
George H.W. Bush was born a few months after my grandmother. They lived very different lives, but they shared the experience of having been very young, but very grown-up, during a time of war. Like Barbara Bush, my grandmother married very young (18) and then waited for her husband to return from the war. Unlike the Bushes, my grandparents were ordinary, working-class people. Neither George H.W. Bush nor my cranky, Trump-supporter (yes) Nana led perfect lives, but they did the best they could and that's all anyone can ask. They are among the last of a generation that lived during a time when their country was almost totally united.
I wasn't a Bush supporter. I didn't vote for 41 or 43. But today was still a sad and solemn day. Maybe it's just nostalgia. Maybe President Bush is like an old Aerosmith song, and I like him now because he's a thing of my youth.
No, it's more than that. Politics aside, there's no hypocrisy in recognizing George H.W. Bush's greatness, as a public servant and as a human. Politics aside, there's no way that a reasonable, feeling person could fail to be moved at the sight of 95-year-old Bob Dole assisted from his wheelchair to give a standing salute to his friend. An era has ended. The past is gone.
In fact, I am so completely not a fan of 70s classic rock that I wasn't even sure if "Dream On" was an Aerosmith or Led Zeppelin song, though I was pretty sure that it was one of the two. So I looked it up, and found that this question is a pretty common one. Go ahead and Google "Dream On Aerosmith." The suggested auto-fill options will include "Dream On Aerosmith or Led Zeppelin."
I sang along with my sons, wondering if the song is actually good, and I just never realized it before; or if I'm just developing a new appreciation for the things of my youth. I'm pretty sure it's the latter.
*****
Saturday: Did you know that Charles Mound, elevation approximately 1,200 feet, is the highest point in Illinois? The mountain range closest to Chicago is the Great Smoky range, over 500 miles distant. Have you ever looked this up? If so, was it because you were watching "Christmas Vacation," and you wondered how far the Chicago-based Griswolds would have had to drive to cut down a tree in the mountains?
No? Just me?
*****
It's December 1, so we're watching "Christmas Vacation." It's not my favorite Christmas movie, but my teenage sons love it so much that it's entered my top ten. I sing along to "Mele Kalikimaka," while my younger son whistles. He is an exceptionally good whistler, and I can carry a tune, so we sound pretty good. It's cozy here, and I have to say that we're the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.
*****
Diane Ladd played Chevy Chase's mother in "Christmas Vacation." They are eight years apart in age.
*****
Monday: Diane Ladd had to fake old ladyhood in "Christmas Vacation," but my Nana is the real thing. Nana looks very much like Aunt Bethany; though unlike poor Aunt Bethany, my grandmother is still as sharp as the proverbial tack. She might wrap up a cat and give it as a gift, but she'd do it on purpose. And you can trust me that if someone asked my Nana to say grace, she wouldn't confuse it with the Pledge of Allegiance, or with anything else.
She'd be quick about it, too. Like most Catholics of her generation, my grandmother is devout, but she doesn't waste time on long, flowery prayers. And she doesn't waste a lot of time on the phone, either; partly because she doesn't hear too well anymore, and because she doesn't like long phone calls. This is a sentiment that I share. I just spoke to Nana, to wish her a happy 95th birthday. It was a five-minute call.
*****
When you're 95, you watch as your spouse and siblings and friends and contemporaries die, one by one. My grandmother is lucky; she hasn't outlived her children, and her health is as good as a 95-year-old can expect. She had to give up driving about 10 years ago (and about five years after she should have); and she can't read any but the largest print anymore. And now she's outliving all of the greatest figures of her generation.
George H.W. Bush was born a few months after my grandmother. They lived very different lives, but they shared the experience of having been very young, but very grown-up, during a time of war. Like Barbara Bush, my grandmother married very young (18) and then waited for her husband to return from the war. Unlike the Bushes, my grandparents were ordinary, working-class people. Neither George H.W. Bush nor my cranky, Trump-supporter (yes) Nana led perfect lives, but they did the best they could and that's all anyone can ask. They are among the last of a generation that lived during a time when their country was almost totally united.
I wasn't a Bush supporter. I didn't vote for 41 or 43. But today was still a sad and solemn day. Maybe it's just nostalgia. Maybe President Bush is like an old Aerosmith song, and I like him now because he's a thing of my youth.
No, it's more than that. Politics aside, there's no hypocrisy in recognizing George H.W. Bush's greatness, as a public servant and as a human. Politics aside, there's no way that a reasonable, feeling person could fail to be moved at the sight of 95-year-old Bob Dole assisted from his wheelchair to give a standing salute to his friend. An era has ended. The past is gone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)