The end of summer

Monday night: I'm done for the day, at the delightfully early hour of 8:45 PM. Maybe I'll sleep tonight. Meanwhile, I have a ton of things that I could do, but I think I'll hang around on the couch and watch "King of the Hill" with my kids, dang it.

Tuesday night: I should be working right now, and I will in a minute, but here I am, blogging instead.

I'm compulsive about a lot of things, including reading. I've managed to fool a lot of people into thinking that I'm a lot smarter than I really am, and that's because I will read almost anything. And when you read a lot of stuff, you learn a lot of stuff. Facts, and details, and historical dates, sports trivia, the actor who starred in that one episode of that show--I know pretty much all of that.

When I say that I'll read almost anything, I mean almost anything, including the directions on a container of hand soap at Aldi. Dispensing with the obvious question (no, not why would I read hand soap instructions, but why such instructions exist in the first place), the instructions were written as though the writer could barely suppress her disdain at whatever idiot needs written instructions to wash her hands: "Use as you normally would use hand soap to wash your hands." The ", dumbass!" was understood, I suppose.

"You need directions to wash your hands? That's asinine."

*****
Saturday: Even at my age, it's a shock to hear that someone you grew up with has died. My mom is here this weekend, and even though I can't remember how we ended up on the subject, I asked her if she had heard from the twins who lived next door to us when I was growing up, and was stunned to hear that they're dead.

Matt and Jimmy (not their real names) were the youngest of a family of five boys and a widowed mother. Their mother (who died several years ago and was thus spared experiencing the loss of her two youngest sons) was even stricter than my mother. We met the family when we moved into the house where my mother still lives, which was when I was 13. My sister was 12, and my brother was 9.  Matt and Jimmy were 11. Their older brothers were a bit older--the closest to them in age was five or six years older, and the oldest two, who still lived at home, were out of high school, working and taking classes at Community College of Philadelphia.

My sister and I and the twins went to different schools, and had different groups of neighborhood friends, but our houses were semi-detached, so we could literally step over our porch fence and be on the twins' porch; and vice versa. So we were all in and out of each others' houses constantly, especially during the summer.

When I was growing up, working mothers didn't worry about summer camp or programs for kids, unless they were too young to stay home alone. My brother and sister and I were alone after school and during the summer from the time I was 10 or so. Matt and Jimmy and their brothers also spent their summers unsupervised.  Who knows how we didn't end up in serious trouble during those summers, because despite their mother's best efforts to control her boys, they were wild, and none more than the twins.

Actually, I know why my sister and I didn't end up in trouble. I was a goody two-shoes, and even the older boys were afraid to drink or smoke pot when I was around, because they thought I'd tell on them. My sister was not as much of a rule-follower as I was, but she was popular and pretty and I think that the boys tried to be on their best (or at least better) behavior when they were around her. Matt and Jimmy were fraternal twins, though they looked nearly identical. The neighborhood adults used to call them things like "Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum," or "Frick and Frack." No adults other than their mother and older brothers could tell them apart, but my siblings and I knew them so well that we could easily distinguish them. We were unlikely but close friends.

The twins were probably the least motivated, least ambitious people I knew. They discovered beer and pot very early, and after that, they spent most of their free time drinking and partying.  But although they weren't ambitious, they also weren't lazy. They went to work right after high school (who knows how they managed to graduate) and went right to work, and they showed up at their jobs every day.  When they were 19 or so, they bought a car that they shared, and they always seemed to have money. In between work, porch-sitting, and drinking, they also helped their mother to maintain her spotless house and garden.

We lost touch eventually.  I moved away from Philadelphia altogether, and my sister and brother moved to the suburbs, while Matt and Jimmy remained at home, working all week, and drinking all weekend. We'd talk at holidays and when I came to visit, but that was all. Then the boys were left a pretty substantial sum of money by a relative (maybe their late father's parents--I can't remember) and they quit their jobs and moved to Florida.

I wasn't really close with the twins anymore, nor with the rest of their family, but I heard that without the their mother around, they fell into a routine that included a lot of drinking, a lot of drug use, and a lot of hanging around with the local party crowd. My mom kept in touch with them. They sent me a card when I had my first child, and we sent greetings back and forth through my mom, but I never actually spoke to them. About 10 years or so ago, according to my mom, they entered rehab and got sober. But apparently they fell back into old habits a few years later. They died within months of each other, of alcohol-related complications. They were 49.

As adults, we had only the most infrequent contact, and really none at all in the past 10 years.  But despite their flaws, they were possibly the two funniest people I ever knew. Even as my sister and I realized that the twins would probably spend most of their lives drunk or high or both (as in fact they did), they always had a spark and a sweetness that made it easy for them to make friends and keep them. Sad and wasteful as their lives were, they still left some good in the world. God rest their souls.

*****
Sunday: Normally, this would be the night before school starts. But this year, we have a one-week reprieve, thanks to an executive order from the governor of Maryland. Rumor has it that school will start in August again next year, but for now, we have one more week.

It already feels like summer is over, though. It's unseasonably cool, and it's almost dark just before 8 PM, and the water was freezing today. It's like a corner has been turned. I was planning to try to swim every night this week, the last week that the pool will be open, but I don't know if I can. It's too dang cold.

What are you talking about? I'm in a great mood.

Monday: As I wrote here, just over two years ago, it's only a matter of time before the deer turn predator, and I think that time is running out. I took a walk around my neighborhood tonight, and I'm pretty sure that the two deer on my neighbor's lawn, who stared at me, holding their ground, would have attacked me if I hadn't crossed the street. Minutes later, I saw a to-the-death battle between two angry squirrels, and then a stray cat squared off at me as if to warn me off its turf, which apparently consists of the whole neighborhood.

It's so rare to see a cat at large anymore. When I was growing up in Philadelphia, people let their cats out during the day. The cats would wander the neighborhood freely until sundown, and then return home. Occasionally, someone would have to go out and hunt for their cat, but most of the neighborhood cats seemed to have unerring homing instincts, and they'd just show up for dinner. People don't let their cats out anymore. And I guess I don't blame them, what with the predatory deer.

Anyway, what is this? Wild Kingdom? Sheesh.

Tuesday: It's fine once you get in. That's what people always say as you dip one tentative toe into the icy cold swimming pool. They won't shut up about it, in fact. "Really. I was really cold at first, but now it feels great. My lips are always blue. It's a medical thing. It's fine, I swear. Get in." So I got in, and swam for a while. And I got used to it. And it was still freezing damn cold, but it didn't matter after I had relinquished my will to live.

Thursday: Is there any possible excuse for any person younger than 85 to hold up the line at the Safeway by WRITING A CHECK OMG for groceries? That was a rhetorical question, of course, but there's nothing stopping you from answering it, as long as your answer is NO, NO, A HUNDRED TIMES NO, FOR GOD'S SAKE.

Standing behind someone writing a check ("What's today's date? What was the amount again? Who do I make it out to? Can I write it for $30 extra? No, wait--maybe $40 extra...") is bad enough. What's worse is standing behind the check-writer in the line manned by the super-friendly, super-entertaining cashier with the running commentary on every facet of life. I must be a misanthrope of the highest order, because every time I end up in his line, the person in front of me never fails to tell him how wonderful he is and how great it is that he's so upbeat and cheerful. And all I want to do is beat him over the head. As I restrained the head-beating urge and willed the check-writing slowpoke to hurry the holy heck up, I noticed a leaflet at the bottom of my cart. "WHERE DO YOU WANT TO SPEND ETERNITY?" was printed in fiery orange and red tones on its glossy black cover.

"Here," I thought. "Right here. I want to spend eternity in the gosh-darn checkout line at the Norbeck Fucking Road Safeway, so aren't I lucky? Because I've been here since the dawn of time and it appears that I'll be here until the sun burns out, and beyond." On my best day, I might have taken that leaflet as a reminder that I do have an immortal soul and that I should maybe take better care of it. But it wasn't my best day.

Saturday: Why did you fail me, Google Drive? Why can't I find the work that I most assuredly finished and saved in the folder where I know I saved it? Please tell me that I don't have to:
A. Rewrite what I already wrote or
B. Lug my 40-pound computer to and from work every day.

I'm normally a good-tempered and mild-mannered person, but technical failures and things not working in general turn me into a flaming torch of rage. I was trying to tear off a sheet of aluminum foil to cover the baking pan of chicken cacciatore that I was about to put in the oven, and the foil tore off in an ever-narrowing spiral, as an ever-widening spiral clung to the roll. I couldn't even. I handed the roll to my husband and said "Fix this please, before I put it through a window." He fixed it, because he knew that I wasn't kidding and that it's easier to stop watching the Redskins and get me some damn aluminum foil than to get a window repaired on a Saturday night.

Computer issues are even worse. I have more than once carried my computer toward the garage, loudly threatening to place it under a rear tire of my car, and then run over it. Someone usually rescues the computer, but one day, it'll be just me and the computer, with no reasonable people between it and the rear tire. Like the predatory deer, it's only a matter of time.

"I'll run it over! I swear I will!"

Sunday: So I just read this over, and I think I'm coming across as the tiniest bit irritable and grouchy. Plankton could take my correspondence course. The panic attacks are back and I'm running on about 12 hours sleep over the past five days, so maybe I'm a little punchy. It'll pass, like everything else does. I think I'll go swimming. It's fine, once you get in.

Pax in terra

I'm mobile blogging right now,  southbound on I-95. No, I'm not driving. Punctuation is the hardest thing about writing on a phone. Punctuation and sudden stops.

*****

We're listening to a road trip mix now. I should probably turn on the radio to see if we've bombed Pyongyang yet, or if North Korean missiles are en route to Seattle,  or if the Klan has descended on Silver Spring. But I'd rather listen to Erasure.

"Weight of the World." How appropriate.

*****

We're about 45 minutes away from home now. It's hard to believe that I woke up at the beach this morning. 

*****

It's Sunday morning , and we're home, so I'm writing on a real keyboard. Anyway, about the beach. We alternate vacations--we visit a new city one year, and then spend a week at the beach the next. It would be nice to do both every year, of course, but we're lucky that we can go away every year, no matter where it is. 

A city vacation is different from a beach vacation because you don't really fall into a routine in a new city. At least, we don't. We fill up every day and night, determined to see as much of our new city as possible. At the beach, though, we establish a routine on day 1, and by day 3, it's like we've always lived in Avalon, and always will. 

One common element of the beach and the city vacations is the early-morning outings with my now 12-year-old son. He and I are both naturally early risers, and we like to go out and do things while the rest of the family sleeps. In the city, this usually means exploratory walks around whatever neighborhood we happen to be staying in, with a stop for coffee and breakfast, which we deliver to my husband and older son just as they're waking up. At the beach, it means morning bike rides. 

Taken on Tuesday morning. It rained all day on
Monday and rain seemed likely on Tuesday,
too. But it turned out to be a sunny day. 

We usually ride for a few miles; sometimes south to Stone Harbor and the shops on 96th Street; and sometimes north to the center of town in Avalon. Sometimes we go farther--to 122nd Street, and Stone Harbor Point; or to Townsend's Inlet, across the bridge from Sea Isle City. Seven Mile Island is as flat as a prairie, so even with wind resistance, a long ride is pretty easy and pleasant, if you like to ride. Not everyone does. My whole family goes to the beach (we stay in separate places) and my sister suggested to my nephew, also an early riser, that he should join us one morning. He scoffed. "What am I, Lance Armstrong? Do you know how far they go?" Not that far if you're a serious rider, but I guess pretty far on a beach cruiser in August. 

The water was perfect last week. Slightly rough surf and a bit of an undertow, but so warm that you could just walk in, and no jellyfish at all. I've never been to the Caribbean, but everyone who has been complains that it ruins them for the Atlantic Ocean on the northeastern coast of the United States. This means that I should never go to the Caribbean, because I never want to not want to swim in the Atlantic Ocean. 

This boy was exactly as I'd have expected him to be in the surf. Knocked down by a wave and scooped up by his father before the current could pull him under, he spluttered and struggled and yelled "Put me down! There's another one coming!" Surrounded by a gang of 9- or 10-year old boogie boarders, he stood his ground, yelling "You guys gotta get outta my way!" And they did, shaking their heads and wondering who the crazy little kid was. 

*****

During city vacations, it seems like the world continues to do what it does, and I'm just as attuned to current events as I am at home. I followed election and Olympics coverage in Chicago in 2012 and Boston in 2016; and in 2014, even South Korean news media was covering the events in Ferguson, MO. ("What's happening in your country?" our tour guide asked us.) At the beach, though, the only news I seem to hear concerns the weather and the water temperature and the movement of the tides.  Somewhere around Wednesday or Thursday, it started to emerge that war with North Korea might be a real and actual threat; and then on Saturday, we watched "white nationalists" and Klansmen and neo-Nazis converge on normally peaceful Charlottesville.  

And so, as we drove further south, over the Delaware Memorial Bridge, into Maryland, toward Baltimore and finally nearing the Capital Beltway, the world once again continued to do what it does, and it felt less like a day that had started at the beach. There's only one kind of peace that matters, anyway, and it doesn't come from the ocean. Not even from the ocean. It's Sunday afternoon now. 

Tied up with string

You know what I love? The word "actually," when little kids say it. Sometime around age 3 3/4 to 4 1/4, little kids tend to start prefacing their explanations with "actually." This is funny enough on its own, but it's even better when they pronounce it "ackchully."

*****
You know what I don't love? The nightly thunderstorms this week, which are seriously affecting my swimming schedule.

*****
I feel like I should try to dress better. I mean, I try to look neat and appropriate for the occasion, but that's as far as it goes. But then I see someone who has taken extra care with their appearance, and they* look so nice, that I think that I should make the extra effort and take the extra time to make a better impression.

As with everything, it comes down to time. I have all the time in the world to pound out utter drivel on this blog, but not enough time, apparently, to take a few extra minutes to find some jewelry or an accessory, or something that would make me look more stylish and pulled-together.

And there's money, too. Clothes and shoes and accessories cost money, and I find that I'm willing to spend money on almost anything else. Like my 20-year-old couch, for example. It's a very comfortable, hardwood-frame couch that will probably outlast humankind, only the cushions and slipcover need to be replaced. So that's where my clothing budget for the next few months will be spent. The couch will be better dressed than me. On the other hand, it will have to wear the same outfit, every day, likely for the rest of its life.

*I have revised my position on use of the singular "they," which I hereby deem acceptable.

*****
I'm not sure how robust my annual reading list will be this year. I'm quite a bit behind last year's pace, and I don't see myself catching up any time soon. I just finished Beryl Bainbridge's A Quiet Life. It's apparently based loosely on her own life in postwar Britain. The story is told from the point of view of the older brother of a wild teenage girl who is having a secret affair with a German POW. The boy's family is miserably unhappy, and although the book is beautifully written, and short, it still took me ten days to slog through it. Well, I'm also reading another book at the same time, but a short novel is usually a faster read for me. I had never read Beryl Bainbridge before, and probably won't read any more of her work. Too depressing. She is almost as misanthropic as Evelyn Waugh, and not nearly as funny.

*****
And why am I even worried about maintaining last year's reading pace anyway? I'm not that competitive,  but I am goal-oriented. And I'm competitive sometimes, too. Swimming again, for example. I'm not very fast at all, but I can go all day. Just the opposite of running, for which I have near-zero endurance (and I'm also a slow runner, so maybe "just the opposite" isn't quite right. Maybe "somewhat the opposite" would be somewhat more accurate). I was swimming laps one night last week, and a neighborhood man, who is older than me, but fit--I see him running all the time--started to swim laps in the lane next to me. He had to stop to rest after every length of the pool, and he complimented my endurance. I modestly dismissed his praise; after all, as I explained, I'm a truly terrible runner who can barely cover a block without stopping to rest. But I was secretly pleased that I was better than someone--anyone--at something athletic.

The man got out of the pool after 5 or 6 laps, and I kept going. Another older person, a Russian lady who reminds me of Raisa Gorbachev, took his place. She and her husband, whose names I don't know, are frequent swimmers. We say hello and smile at one another, but I've never really spoken to them. Her endurance is better than the running man's, but I'm faster than she is. A lot faster. So even though she's at least 10 years my senior, I can't help but enjoy beating her pace and swimming past her, and turning before she's even 5 meters from the wall.  It's a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Eat my bubbles, Mrs. Gorbachev.

*****
As usual, I have no idea how I ended up getting from there to here. I started by writing about some of my favorite things, and "actually" was first on my list. Then I got distracted.

But this post is kind of about some of my favorite things. Like swimming. And books. And grammar. And trash talking about old people. OK, not the last  one. But the other three, for sure. Books, swimming, and grammar really are some of my favorite things, actually.

I'm a ray of sunshine

It's 10 PM Friday, and I'm watching "The Hunger Games" with my son. We have one more summer swim meet tomorrow morning, and then the season is officially over. I'm guess I'm relieved, but I'll miss it.

I was so busy at work today that I didn't even hear about Priebus until I was driving home. We have a President now who has made Sean Spicer, Jeff Sessions, and Reince Priebus all look like sympathetic characters. For a while, I actually felt sorry for Spicer. And now, all of a sudden, Republican lawmakers are having Profiles in Courage moments, warning Trump (via Twitter, of course) not to try to fire Sessions.

It all begs just one question: What did you bitches expect? Did you all think that Trump was going to treat you better than he treated Jeb Bush and Marco Rubio and Ted Cruz and everyone else he bullied and humiliated throughout the campaign? Did you think he was going to be nice to you, just because you're on his side? I give Scaramucci three months.  I got your communications, right here.

*****
I'm still reading A Kim Jong-Il Production. Sang Shin-Ok spent several years in a North Korean prison as punishment for his second escape attempt, and it was just as brutal as  you'd expect a North Korean prison to be. Because I'm the most fun person in the world, I sometimes imagine my favorite places--the pool, for example; or Avalon, New Jersey, turned into giant battlefields or prison camps. Not, obviously, because that's what I want to happen, but because I'm afraid that it could.  Because it has.

We saw "Dunkirk" last night. Brilliant, but not what I expected. Maybe I've been married to a Korean for too long, because all of the young, handsome Englishmen looked the same to me. I liked the three interwoven stories, and Mark Rylance is great as the captain of the tiny Moonstone. But I keep returning to the opening scene, of a soldier running through the almost-too-picturesque streets of Dunkirk. He runs past the seaside hotel and onto the sun-drenched beach, where he finds queues of stranded soldiers, thousands of them, trapped with no food or water and awaiting uncertain rescue amid bombs and machine gun fire raining down from German fighter planes.

All of these places, all of the killing fields and mass graves and secret prisons and re-education camps, all started as something else. They all started as just places, where people lived or vacationed or just drove past every day without much thought, only to see them turn into hell on earth. Good prevailed over evil at Dunkirk, as it will in the end. But evil never stops trying.

A week minus a day

Monday
So this week will be a test of my determination to post something here at least once a week. I say that every week (well, I think it every week, anyway), but this time, I'm serious.

When I'm overextended, I tend to look for shortcuts, and to rush through things and places and people as fast as I can, so that I can get to the next task. Not the most harmonious approach to life, I know. Sometimes, things go smoothly, and I dodge and weave my way through the grocery store, for example, finding the shortest line, and sailing out of there with no delays.

Other times, I hit roadblocks and obstacles, seething as I wait for slow people to meander their way through wherever I happen to be. Like the grocery store again, where I try not to let my irritation show as the overly friendly, overly solicitous cashier stops to chat with EVERY SINGLE PERSON in the already too-long line, and asks EVERYONE if they found everything they needed, or if they need stamps, or if they want paper or plastic.  But by the time I reach the front of the line, all I can think is I'LL BEAT YOU WITH THAT PAPER BAG! I'LL BURN THIS PLACE DOWN WITH THOSE POSTAGE STAMPS, WHICH WILL BE IGNITED BY THE FIRE OF MY RIGHTEOUS FURY!

And then I say "Oh yes, thank you. No, no stamps, thank you. No, I have my own bags. Thank you. Yes, you too! Thanks again!"

Tuesday
In The Screwtape Letters, there's a part where Screwtape writes to Wormwood that his goal should be to make sure that his mortal victims realize, far too late, that they spent most of their time doing neither what they should have done nor what they wanted to do.

This made a deep impression on me. I don't ever set out to waste time, of course, but I give way to panic and indecision, and minutes (or hours) later realize that I just wasted an irretrievable part of my day because I couldn't decide what to do.

But not today. Today was one of those days when I stayed focused from morning to night. Productive at work and productive at home. I finished making dinner at about 8:15. Too late to go swimming, I thought, because the pool closes at 8:45. On the other hand, the pool is right around the corner. But on yet another hand, I'm still in my work clothes. But if I get changed quickly, I can be in the water by 8:25, which means that I can swim for 20 minutes.

There are plenty of days (most days) when the back and forth about this very minor decision would have sent me into a tailspin of panic-fueled indecision, until it was too late to do whatever I was trying to decide to do or not to do. But again, not today. I covered the food with aluminum foil, ran and put on a suit, grabbed a towel, drove to the pool, and was in the water by 8:25. And that short time in the water was like a 20-minute vacation that made the kitchen clean-up that still awaited entirely worth it.

Wednesday
My grandmother, who is in her 90s, used to be a writer of strongly worded letters. Any time she was outraged or offended about something (almost daily), she'd write to newspaper editorial pages, local officials, members of Congress, or anyone else who incurred her displeasure or who should, in her opinion, address whatever issue she was concerned about. She had very nice Catholic school Palmer Method handwriting, and she wrote her letters in longhand, on lined letter paper (the kind you used to be able to buy in tablets at drugstores) at the end of her kitchen table. She had the names and office addresses of the mayor of Philadelphia, the governor of Pennsylvania, her Senators and Representative, and every member of the Philadelphia City Council (they were frequent letter targets) in her leather address book. I don't recall that she ever wrote to the President, but perhaps she did. Or perhaps she just copied him on her letters to her Senators. Her letter-writing efforts were not restricted to politicians and newspaper editors. If a product or a service or an establishment didn't live up to her expectations, those responsible would hear, in letter form, from my grandmother.

I used to do the same thing, only via email. But l just don't have time anymore. As much as I'd like to fight City Hall about, oh, I don't know, speed camera tickets in general, or my 14th speed camera ticket in particular, there are only so many hours in the day. 

When I pay the tickets (and I always threaten to go to court, but then I just shut up and pay the $40), I usually take a screen shot of the payment screen, and save it, just in case. I used to just name the file speedcamerapayment and the date. Now, let's just say, I'm a little more expressive. fuckmylifemofospeedcamerabitches_072017.dox is a sample file name.  But there's always a silver lining. After all, I've been meaning to get rid of that extra $40 for weeks. 

Thursday
I was writing something about something that happened today, and I couldn't sustain enough interest in the story to even finish the first sentence, so I won't inflict it on my reading public. You're welcome.

Friday
Ain't nobody got time to blog today.

Sunday
I worked part-time and/or at home from 2009 to 2016. Of course, the Internet and mobile technology were around in 2009, but I don't remember feeling required to be available for work at all times, just because it was possible to work at all times. Things have changed, though.

I love my job. But it occurred to me yesterday that perhaps I shouldn't feel guilty about joining my son and his friends and their mothers for a post swim meet lunch and buddy gift shopping trip, rather than going immediately home to work. Because yesterday was Saturday. Of course, I paid for it by working until 10 last night.

*****
Hey, that's kind of a lot. I didn't think I'd get more than a sentence or two out of myself this week.  None of it makes sense or is relevant to anything, but I don't promise all the news that's fit to print.

In my day

We have an intern at work (well, we have more interns than you can shake a stick at, if you're a stick shaking person, but that's a story for another day) who just bought a Polaroid camera--an actual Polaroid camera, that spits out ready-to-develop paper photographs. He told us that he carries it everywhere. It's almost the size of a shoebox, and looks like it weighs about five pounds.

*****
I'm familiar with young people's love for old technology. It seems silly to carry around a giant Polaroid camera when you can take far better pictures with even the cheapest 8-ounce smartphone, but Polaroid photography seems like a harmless-enough hobby, so who am I to judge? It keeps them off the street, as they say.

*****
Last year when I was in Boston, I bought a little velcro wallet made from an old museum banner at the MFA gift shop. I loved that wallet. LOVED it. It's starting to come apart, though, and so I have to replace it.  It was one of a kind, which means that I have to replace it with something else altogether, since I can't get another just like it.

I found a wallet on Amazon, which for some reason appealed to me even though it's not at all the kind of thing that I normally like, so I ordered it. And I was horrified when it arrived. In the photograph, it looked like a small, brightly patterned cordura nylon wallet with a velcro closure and cute red trim. IRL, it was a huge, bulky, Guatemalan ikat fabric monstrosity with an enormous label and unraveling thread. It looked like something you'd carry your Phish tickets in.

I read an article yesterday, criticizing Amazon for its low prices and easy, so-called free returns, and although I can see the author's point, I do love Amazon. I have no time to shop, and it's quite lovely to have things delivered to me, so that I can either keep or send them back. And now, you can return things (or pick them up) from something called the Amazon Locker, in a neighborhood location.

When I was growing up, my mom used to shop from the Montgomery-Ward catalog, which was the size of a phone book, assuming anyone even knows what a phone book is or was. M-W delivered its giant catalogs twice a year, and they came equipped with order forms that you could remove, complete in pen, and stuff into an envelope with your check or money order. A week or so later, your items would arrive at your door.

Or, you could go to your neighborhood Montgomery-Ward catalog store and pick up your box in person. The catalog store wasn't really a store, because you couldn't actually shop there. It had a counter in front, like a dry cleaner; and in the back, boxes were stored on rows of shelves, organized by last name. You could also return your purchases at the catalog store. So once again, what's old is new.

*****
I thought that I was reasonably well-informed on current events, but I suppose I still have some catching up to do. Because I thought that Donald Jr. was the blond one.

*****
My work commute is only six miles or so, all through neighborhood streets and secondary roads. It's a nice change from my old Beltway commute. There's a little neighborhood in Rockville that I drive through every day, that reminds me of my neighborhood. It's a 1960s-built Life Magazine version of an American suburban neighborhood, with alternating ranch, colonial, and Cape Cod-style houses with neat lawns and mature shade trees.

I like Rockville and Silver Spring, especially the mid-century neighborhoods that aren't quite upscale, but also not quite affluent. These are among the few truly egalitarian communities left in the Washington suburbs, where lawyers and doctors live next door to police officers and nurses, who live next door to hair stylists and electricians. OK, so not exactly the full spectrum of society, but not as polarized as the rest of this city sometimes seems to be.

And that was my social commentary for the week. Now, I'm exhausted.

*****
I have a long-standing aversion to ridiculous street and town names. In fact, if I were to ever inherit my dream house, but it was located in a stupid-name town, or on a ridiculously named street, I'd sell immediately.

I live in Maryland, where there are actually lots of places with beautiful and/or dignified names. Silver Spring, of course is the most beautiful town name, and that happens to be where I live. We also have Camp Springs, Bethesda, Fort Washington, Baltimore, Prince Frederick, Prince George's County, Aberdeen, Rising Sun--anyone would be happy to return address their letters from any of these places.

On the other hand, we also have more than a few towns and streets that have ridiculous or absurdly ugly names. Boonsboro, Scaggsville, Dundalk, Waldorf (it's the "dorf" sound that makes it ridiculous), Accident, Boring, and (no kidding) Crappo are all towns that must be deserted, like Centralia; only not because of raging underground fires, but because the names of those places are so awful that no one would ever want to have such an address printed on their driver's license.

Wait, what was I talking about?

Oh right! Rockville! (Another very serviceable name.)  Although I normally have a distinct bias against silly street names, I make an exception for one street name in Rockville, in the little neighborhood that I drive through every day. The street names there are made-up portmanteau words, most of which I can't remember right now, but one that amuses me to no end every time I drive past it: Miltfred Way.

Isn't that the best name? I have no idea who Milt or Fred were (or are--maybe they're still alive), but it does seem quite certain that the street is named after two men named Milt and Fred (or Milton and Frederick, I suppose).

I'm not sure who named the street after them. Maybe they were the developers of the neighborhood, and one day, after a few too many drinks, they decided to name a street after themselves. I picture two middle-aged men in Mad Men-era glasses, wearing golf clothing, and laughing uproariously at the people who would eventually have to tell other people that they just bought a house on Miltfred Way. Or maybe Milt and Fred were the fathers or grandfathers of the people who built the neighborhood, and the street was named as a tribute to them.  I have no idea; and I also have no idea why I'm so fond of this name, when I'm normally so particular about street names.  Nostalgia maybe--a reminder of a simpler time, when Polaroid cameras were cutting-edge technology, and Montgomery-Ward was still a thing. And no one knew one Trump from another, and we liked it that way.

On high, for 30 seconds

Monday: On Friday night, I tried to use the microwave, which is no more than six months old, and nothing happened. No little beep, no lights, no whirring sound as the plate revolves around to ensure even irradiation of your food.

Hmm, I thought. This microwave is no more than six months old. Why isn't it working? Is it a power failure? Obviously not, what with the lights blazing and the air conditioner humming happily along. Maybe a circuit breaker was tripped? No, they were all fine. ("Do you know what you're doing?" my 12-year-old son asked skeptically as I scanned the breaker box.)

I suppose I started with zebras and then proceeded to horses, because the last thing I checked was the plug, which was inserted firmly into the outlet. So there was no reason why it didn't work, but it didn't work. Until, of course, my husband came home, and I told him that it didn't work. He scoffed. "What are you talking about?" he said. "That microwave is no more than six months old. Of course it works." And he pushed a button, and it worked.

I can't tell you how much I hate when that happens. So imagine my glee when I came home from work today, and found the microwave in the box that it came in, on the kitchen floor. I called my husband. He didn't answer, because he's not an idiot. So I texted.

What happened to the microwave?

He texted back:

It's broken. No idea what's wrong with it.

I replied:

Hmmm. That's weird. Did you check to see if it was plugged in?

There's no point to this story whatsoever, except that it's 100% worth whatever it costs to replace that microwave. VINDICATION.

*****
Wednesday: My older son, when he was six or so, really loved everything Star Wars (at 16, he's still a fan). He used to talk about "Star Wars: The Complete Songa." I still like to pronounce "saga" as "songa." I have no idea why I'm thinking about that.

I'm reading Paul Fischer's A Kim Jong-Il Production. It's the true story of how Kim Jong-Il kidnapped South Korea's most famous movie director and his actress wife, and forced them to make movies in North Korea. The book was recommended by a friend; and of course, the irresistible combination of movies and totalitarian Communism makes it that much more compelling. It's gripping, so far.

This morning, I was listening to NPR, and heard a story about efforts to subvert state censors in North Korea. Watching Western movies is punishable by death in North Korea, but people do it anyway, using tiny removable drives that can be swallowed or flushed when the secret police come knocking (why do they even knock, I've always wondered). The point of the story was that North Korea is not quite the hermetically sealed information black hole that we think it is, and that enterprising North Koreans are finding ways to undermine their totalitarian government, even at risk of death.

So it seems that Orwell was only half right. The same technology that makes it possible for the state to monitor every aspect of our lives, 1984-style also allows people to subvert the state, with social-media-convened flash mobs, and revolutionary hashtags.

Maybe that's the end game. Maybe the Internet has ended the possibility of real, permanent, 100% totalitarianism, and it's only a matter of time before North Korea collapses under the weight of thousands of miniature flash drives.

Or maybe the Internet ends instead, when governments good and bad agree that they can't govern their people as long as those people have unfettered access to information, and the means by which to share it. In the "good" countries, the end will come as the result of a massive security breach that empties millions of bank accounts; or maybe when the Russian hackers finally figure out a way to take down the whole power grid. Then the government will cut off access to the Internet for our own good. In the "bad" countries, of course, they'll just shut the whole thing down, because they can.

Without the Internet, they'll have to spy on us the old-fashioned way, with hidden cameras and microphones, recording our every move and conversation. Maybe they'll hide them in microwave ovens.

Plagues and pestilence

When my sons were very young, they always got sick in June. Every year, from about age 2 to age 9 or 10, they'd  be felled by dreadful stomach viruses, or bacterial infections--usually strep.  Then, we enjoyed a few sickness-free summers.  But the plague has returned. Both boys have raging strep infections, and the house feels like a MASH unit. There are blankets and pillows and half-empty (and not half-full) glasses of water everywhere, and no one other than me has enough energy to move off the couch. Thank goodness for antibiotics. They'll be back to normal in no time.

*****
This is an unusually demanding and un-summer-like summer, and every week, I think that I won't bother with posting anything, because what do I have to say? But I feel strangely compelled to write about nothing in particular, with occasional veiled (well, maybe not that veiled--I think the filter is gone) references to crippling anxiety and panic attacks. There are no antibiotics for this, but it comes and goes. I'll also be back to normal in no time.

*****
It's Friday now. At 6:45 this morning, I was sitting on my couch watching "Morning Joe." I watch "MJ" almost every morning, but by "watch," I mean that it's on in the background while I get ready for work. Today, though, I actually sat and watched to see how Joe and Mika would respond to Trump's Twitter attack on Mika.

I thought that I had finally reached a point at which I just couldn't take Donald Trump seriously enough anymore to maintain an appropriate level of outrage. But as it turns out, I have outrage to spare about the fact that this vile and contemptible little man who is entirely lacking in dignity, decency, and self control; and who is unfit to hold any public office at any level, is the President of the United States.

But maybe I'm wrong about self-control. It's 9:30 PM now, and I'm watching Rachel Maddow (OMG, what am I doing with my life?) and she makes the very convincing and compelling argument that the Trump tweets and comments that seem most undisciplined because of their shocking lack of courtesy are the most carefully and thoughtfully written and delivered, because the Twitter storms are all part of a vast bread and circus plan to keep people distracted--maybe entertained or maybe outraged, but distracted from what really matters, which is this administration's determination to dismantle the so-called "administrative state," and establish a Putin-style plutocracy.

Wait, how did I even get started on that?

I don't really like to write about politics, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. I don't really have the time or inclination to do the research and study necessary to really do it well; and besides, what can I say that hasn't been said a million times already. I'm much better just writing inconsequential nonsense about daily ephemera.

The problem is that I can't stop worrying that all of the daily, routine, ordinary things that interest me most will all disappear soon. But I might be overreacting. I tend to do that. How much damage can one man do in just 3 1/2 more years? Things will be back to normal in next to no time.

Nouvelle cuisine

I wasn't going to write anything this week, because I don't have time (I should have a macro that will type that phrase), but here I am.

*****
I love when I have a plan for dinner. Even if I have to cook, I don't mind, as long as I know what I'm going to cook. If I had someone to tell me what to make every day, and to write down exactly the ingredients that I need, then I'd be perfectly happy to cook.  And if they delivered the ingredients, too, that would be even better. And then after they delivered the ingredients, if they also did the washing, peeling, chopping, and general prep work, that would be even better.  And then, after I cooked the perfectly seasoned, neatly prepped dinner, they also cleaned up...well, never mind.

But anyway, I love when I have a plan; for anything, really, but especially dinner. And I love when the plan, as it were, comes together. On the other hand, I hate when I take the chicken, which is part of the plan, out of the oven, and turn it over to season it, and dump cinnamon rather than garlic powder all over it, and then have to wash it (wash it!) before returning it to the oven.  Cinnamon and chicken-washing: NOT part of any plan, ever.

*****

And so that's what's happening right now. Things that are not part of any plan, like leaving my phone at the store and then having to go back to get it,  and near misses on the road, and losing things and forgetting things, and cinnamon-seasoned chicken--and massive panic attacks,  of course--keep happening, and throwing the plans into a tailspin. 

So what am I doing about this? Nothing, of course, except writing barely coherent nonsense on this blog. I'm thinking that I'll ignore it,  and it will all fix itself. This approach always works so well that I'll just stay with it. What could go wrong?

*****
I really did wash the chicken; and then re-seasoned it with olive oil,  kosher salt,  pepper,  garlic powder,  basil,  and oregano. Ten minutes later,  we sat down to eat. "This chicken is really good," my son said, looking thoughtful. "It has kind of a sweet taste. I can't tell what it is."  I feigned ignorance. The chicken was delicious. 

I used to live in Africa, with all the little birdies and the monkeys

Monday: Last November, the Washington Capitals had a fun promotion for Election Day. Fans in attendance at the November 8 game against San Jose could vote for their favorite bobblehead candidate: The choices were Braden Holtby, Justin Williams, and Tom Wilson. Holtby, of course, won in a landslide. And then the Capitals lost to San Jose, and we listened to the election returns in the car on the way home, knowing that we'd be waking up on Wednesday morning to the grim reality of President-Elect Trump.

And now, for the second year in a row, I wake up on a beautiful June morning to the grim reality of the Pittsburgh Penguins as Stanley Cup Champions. I know that one of these scenarios is far worse than the other; it's just hard to decide which one.

*****

Tuesday: After weeks of ridiculous cold, it's finally hot, and I got to swim after work.
There's nothing better than swimming outdoors, on a beautiful warm evening, when the water is not cold, but not yet warm. There's a moment of shock when your body hits the slightly-too-cool water, and then you're just free and happy for 15 minutes, or however long you're in the water. I swim in the winter, too, which is nice in its own way, but I love to swim outside, and see the water sparkling in the sun.  

*****

Thursday: I'm finished with everything that I need to do today, at only 8:30 PM. So unusual. I think I'll watch Rachel at 9. I'm almost finished with the Zelmanyaners, and it's time to figure out what to read next.

I have lots of friends who are stay-at-home mothers, or teachers, or who work odd, part-time hours. I think they feel sorry for me because I work so much. But I don't feel sorry for me. Summer is so brief and hard to pin down, but a few minutes of summer perfection every day can be almost as good as hours of languor. It's more precious for being rare. Or something like that. I'm no good at poetry.

*****

I have kind of a regimented approach to daily life, and I used to feel bad about that; like maybe I should try to relax a bit, and just allow things to happen without trying to control everything. That sounds like advice to me, from someone who has never met me. I'm no more capable of going with the proverbial flow than ceasing to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide. (Wait, that's what we do, right? We breathe in the oxygen, and then breathe out the CO2? Science is another thing that I'm not very good at.)

For example, I get up much earlier in the morning than I really need to, because I cannot function in a messy or dirty house, and so I clean in the morning, because I never know if I'll have time at night. I make rules and lists for myself, and I stick to them, sometimes to a ridiculous extreme. Control helps me to manage the panic and anxiety a little bit. This morning, for example, I woke up at 4:05, in all-out panic mode. And then I remembered that my list was under control, and that I hadn't forgotten to do anything, and I fell back asleep for more than an hour.

I don't even know what the point of all that was. But I don't pretend to be coherent 100% of the time.

*****

Sunday: I try to be kind to people, but sometimes I am not a very nice person. That's all I have to say about that. Except that I spent lots of time and mental energy today trying to justify and excuse and minimize something that I said yesterday, and even though lots of people wouldn't think that what I said was so terrible in the first place, I know better.

And now, I'm an even worse person, because apparently, I'm morally superior to other people because I know that I said something mean, and yet I said it anyway, so really, who are these "lots of people?" They're me, and I'm the worst of them.

Again, not coherent, but I don't have time to copy edit myself today. Next week, I'm going to write "shut up" on my to-do list. If it's on the list, then I have to do it, as you know, and so maybe a to-do list entry will remind me that not all of my jokes are funny, and not all of my stories are pithy and hilarious, and not every thought that pops into my head is worthy of verbal expression.  I'm an idiot. But I guess we all are, and this is strangely reassuring. 

Six days

Monday: I just met the last of a series of deadlines (including a deadline for a newsletter article for my neighborhood newsletter, which if I'm being honest, doesn't really count because I sent my article in several days late, but I think that the newsletter editor has a special deadline just for me, because in 10 years, I've never once been on time) and it's nice to have a figurative minute to breathe. I left work at 5:30 tonight. It won't last, and honestly, that's OK with me. I like to be busy, and I work better under pressure. Or rather, I produce better work--I'm not sure if that's the same as working better.

My son, who is almost 16 now, got his hair cut today. It's very short on the sides and in the back, and kind of poufy on the top. He has the kind of hair that grows up and out, not down. I'd rather a less extreme cut, but it does look cool, and he's happy with it. So that's fine. What's not fine is that his brother, who is not yet 13, now wants the same haircut. My younger son still looks like a little boy, and I would like for him to continue looking like a little boy. He, of course, would like to stop looking like a little boy, and as quickly as possible. It's his hair, I guess.

*****
Tuesday:  Disregard the first paragraph of Monday's entry.

Meanwhile, since we are (or were) on the subject of hair, you should know that I am one of those women who has no idea what to do with her hair. You've seen us, I'm sure. There's always a headband, or a ponytail holder, or a clip somewhere, and our hair grows out for months, while we postpone hair appointments, or avoid making them altogether, because refer to the first sentence of this paragraph--we have no idea what do do with our hair.

I'm dispensing with the royal "we" now. It's not we, but rather me, or rather I. I have no idea what to do with my hair. It has already become a problem, and it'll soon be an altogether unmanageable problem. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Or rather, I will.

*****
Wednesday: What is worse than making a deadline, and then waking up the next morning to find that major revisions are requested, and that your new deadline is tomorrow? Plenty of things, of course, when you consider life and the world as a whole; but within the more narrow realm of technical writing for a Federal government contractor, this would have to rank among the worst things ever. Super fun day.

*****
Thursday: I suppose this isn't true 100% of the time; but generally, if someone asks you if you can "see your way clear" to doing or not doing something, you can probably assume that the act or omission is illegal or immoral or unethical or all three.

*****
Saturday: There's a silver lining for almost everything. Panic-induced insomnia, for example, though no fun at all, does tend to keep a person on her toes. Just today, I officiated at a swim meet, started and finished a particularly odious work task, started (but didn't quite finish) a weekly team newsletter, grocery shopped, did laundry, cooked dinner, and went swimming. I'm very productive.

*****
Sunday: My husband asked me to pick up his prescription, and I'm sad to say that I'm now the person who sees an old lady shuffling toward the pharmacy desk at Rite-Aid, and practically breaks into a run to beat her there.  Because there are three places where you don't want to be behind the old lady in line:
1. The deli counter at Giant (OMG)
2. Any pharmacy, anywhere in the world
3. The confession line at St. Patrick's RC Church, on any Saturday afternoon

I speak from bitter experience. Sorrynotsorry as they say on the Internet.

Meanwhile, the productivity streak continues, and I even finished the swim team newsletter. I'm an unstoppable force. If I figure out what to do with my hair, I'll probably run for Congress.

The Ryan Lochte rule

I had something that I wanted to say about The Zelmenyaners, but I can't remember what it was. I can confirm, however, that it's the funniest Yiddish novel about Soviet central planning that I have ever read. I'm reading it in English, of course, so maybe it's even funnier in the original. Anyway, I'm halfway through it.  I used to read books at a much faster rate, but a person can only read so many pages in 10 to 15 minutes a day.

The Zelmenyaners is nothing like The Cazalet Chronicles, and of course, I didn't expect it to be. I don't feel like I know the Zelmenyaners like I knew the Cazalets. Elizabeth Jane Howard was writing about her own family, so there's an intimate, knowing quality that makes the reader feel very well acquainted with the characters. After a few days with the Zelmenyaners, I still don't know one Zelmenyaner from the other. But The Zelmenyaners has a poetic and whimsical quality that's rather lovely, even in translation. There's a character who is described as refusing to come out of the house, having been insulted as a child (this is a paraphrase, because Kindle won't let me search the passage). I find this charming, and very truthful.  Most days, of course, I'm not inclined to refuse to leave the house because of remembered childhood insults. But I do remember.

I probably won't re-read The Zelmenyaners. But I'm glad that I read it once.

*****

It's 7:30 PM on Saturday. I went to the pool today, and chatted with friends, and read for a bit, and then I tried to swim. I really love to swim, and I don't mind chilly water. I do, however, object to iceberg-plowing-into-the-Titanic freezing cold, and I didn't get any farther in than my ankles. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe not.

*****
Summer swim season just started. This is our 11th year of summer swim team, so we are seasoned swim team parents. I just renewed my refereeing certification. Apparently, there's a relatively new thing called the Ryan Lochte Rule, which I learned about on Thursday night.

And now begins weeks of Friday night pasta parties, and Saturday morning meets, and writing weekly email updates, and standing on the deck with a clipboard and then being amazed at the end of July when it's all over again. I love summer.

*****
That was going to be all, because I just didn't know what else to write about, even though I've been writing in my head all day. I'm extremely prolific, in my imagination. It's about 10:45 now. I picked up my son from work at 8 and heard about the London attack on the radio, and I've been avoiding the TV until now.

I'm so tired of these cowardly barbarians, trying to drag the rest of us back into the stone age by brute force. Social media will probably be awash in the Union Jack by tomorrow, and my Trump supporter friends and family will say "See? Now do you understand?" as if my failure to vote for a corrupt and ignorant vulgarian is somehow to blame for this most recent of many outrages. And Trump was super-tough on terrorism when he visited Saudi Arabia, right? King Salman is probably still trying to wash the lip prints off his rear end.

And when it happens here again, which it will, we won't really know if it's real or staged. And it won't matter, for our purposes, because either way, the boom will be lowered. Martial law will be declared, and habeas corpus will be suspended, and the press will be restricted or silenced altogether, and lots of people will thank the administration for keeping us all safe.

OK, that took a turn. It's probably time to turn off MSNBC.

*****

It's Sunday morning now. It's beautiful and sunny and warm, and this little boy and his baby sister are coming over to go swimming later. The barbarians might be at the gate, but they're not coming in, at least not today. I have a swim team newsletter to write.

*****
I did finally go swimming today. It was freezing when I got in, but then I got used to it, and it was still unbearable.