I drove home from work on Monday night, anxious and panicky about the annual spring onslaught. Every time I thought that I had an organized list of things to do in my mind, I'd remember yet another thing that I had to do. I arrived home at 6:30, feeling completely overwhelmed and not nearly equal to the tasks at hand. Sometimes, all I can do is wait for the panic to subside; but sometimes, exercise helps. With 45 minutes or so of daylight remaining, I decided to take a walk.
I was about two blocks from home as dusk began to fall, and I saw what I thought was a medium-sized red dog running across the street about half a block in front of me. And then I realized that dogs don't have big fluffy tails. It was a fox. It stopped in the middle of the road and looked at me for a second, and then it kept running.
Crap, I thought to myself (as opposed to thinking to other people, I guess). They're not still supposed to be out in daylight, are they? I mean, it was getting dark, but it wasn't dark yet. What if it's rabid? What if it's aggressive? Should I turn and walk the other way?
No. If I'm brave enough to walk right past a snake (yes, I know that it was an imaginary snake, but I didn't know that until AFTER I decided to walk past it, so bravery credit still applies) then I can be brave enough to walk past a fox that has, after all, already run away. Unless it's lying in wait, ready to ambush me.
A stick! I have no hope of outrunning the thing, but I can fight it off with a stick. My neighborhood is full of trees, so there's no shortage of sticks, and it took me only a minute to find a nice stout stick with a sharp, pointy end suitable for fox-poking. Nothing in my entire life has prepared me for hand-to-hand combat with a wild animal, even armed with a stick, but it was better than nothing. I walked the rest of the way home without incident.
*****
I have a crazy neighbor. You'll have to take my word for that, because I can't share much detail. In addition to being crazy (or perhaps it's a symptom or manifestation of his craziness), he keeps his house in a state of disrepair that makes "ramshackle" a kind description of the place. Unsurprisingly, he has a problem with rodents, including raccoons. Being crazy, he decided to set traps to catch the raccoons.
Crazy or not (crazy--trust me), he's a competent raccoon trapper, because he caught one right away. Then he called my husband. In all fairness, everyone calls my husband. He's can fix almost anything, and he's very good in a crisis. And although my neighbor is a batshit raving lunatic, I share his conviction that a trapped raccoon in one's backyard is a crisis. I don't, however, agree that the solution to that crisis is to call the neighborhood police officer and expect him to immediately come and shoot the raccoon with his service revolver.
See? I TOLD you he's crazy. After my husband diplomatically disabused him of the notion that police officers can moonlight as raccoon hit men, crazy neighbor decided, as a crazy person would, to leave it in the trap until it died. I'm no friend to rodents, and raccoons are among my least favorite of these vile creatures. But leaving it a cage to starve in the freezing cold is beyond the pale. I told my husband to call animal control. He sighed. "I will," he said. "But he'll give me a hard time about it."
"Why?" I asked. "They'll come and take it and release it on the Henson Trail, and he won't have to deal with it. Problem solved."
"That was what I told him to do," my husband said. "He didn't want to release it, because he's sure that it will make its way back."
Again--Crazy. The man has two broken windows and a gaping hole in the siding on one side of his house alone. When the snow came (yes, snow, on March fucking 20th--Maryland weather is an asshole), every raccoon in Silver Spring sought shelter in his house. He's lucky that we don't have many bears around here, because there's nothing stopping one from hibernating in his garage.
*****
As the rest of the week passed, I had no interaction with the animal kingdom, until today (Saturday). My 13-year-old is taking care of another (not crazy) neighbor's cats for the week. Our neighbor dropped off her keys on her way out of town; she had already fed the cats but encouraged my son to stop by to visit and give the cats a treat.
Both of the cats are old; 15 or so. The male, an orange tabby, has been with my neighbor since he was a kitten, and she told us that he is very friendly and comfortable around strangers. The other cat, a gray and white mixed breed, is new to the household. My neighbor adopted him when her friend became too ill to care for her. She told us that the gray cat is skittish and afraid of strangers.
The cats were exactly as advertised. The male tabby, Enu, is a cat-dog. He ran to the door and greeted us happily as we entered. Kelly, the shy cat, ran down the basement stairs as soon as she saw us, and she never appeared again.
Enu followed us eagerly around the house. We petted him and fed him treats, changed his water, and checked the litter boxes, and got ready to leave. The cat followed us to the door. "Don't let him out," I told my son.
"He likes to go out," my son said. "I almost forgot--Mrs. V said to let him out in the yard for a few minutes."
"OK," I said. "But let's make sure that the gate is closed."
I no sooner said the words then the crazy cat took off running and got right through the barely cracked front door before I could close it. I ran after him.
Remember that this cat is 15 years old. He's also obese, probably morbidly so in cat terms. I hadn't expected that an elderly, overweight cat would be a flight risk, but trust me, this geriatric feline fat-ass could run like the damn wind. But then he stopped, right in the middle of the front yard. He didn't appear winded; I think he just wanted to drink in the sunshine and freedom for a minute. So we waited as he scampered around the yard, sniffing at trees and rocks like a dog.
"OK," I said to my son. "It's time to go. Let's bring him in." The cat allowed me to pick him up, but he started to fight me as we got nearer the house, finally breaking free and running back across the yard.
Remember again: This cat is about as old as cats get, and in serious need of diet and exercise, at least one of which it was getting by outrunning me (which admittedly is not hard to do). I chased him across the street, and managed to direct him back again to his own front yard. Fiendishly clever, he ran under the car and then catloafed, tail contentedly wagging, keeping time like a metronome. He knew that I couldn't get to him from where he was, and I knew that he knew, and he knew that I knew. We had ourselves a cat-human standoff.
The cat, smug and compact, was obviously enjoying himself tremendously. Every part of his body, from the serene face to the paws cozily tucked close to his body to the rotund torso to the thumping tail seemed to ask "What now? What are you going to do?" And I didn't know, other than to either crawl under the car (no) or to just wait him out. And then I heard a rustle.
My son had run back inside to get the bag of treats. "I just remembered that Mrs. V said to shake the treats, and he'll come back in." And he was right. Between the freedom of the outdoors and a delicious cat treat, there was no contest. Fatso couldn't resist the siren call of food, and we got him safely inside.
*****
It's Sunday night now. The rest of the family are on spring break, and I'll be joining them on Thursday. For now, it's three days in the world of people with (I hope) no unwanted encounters with the animal kingdom, wild or domestic.
Sunday, March 25, 2018
Sunday, March 18, 2018
Birdwatching
It's Tuesday. Last night, I was watching the Capitals vs. Winnipeg with my sons, and I left the room just in time to miss the world's greatest hockey player's 600th lifetime goal. Disappointing, but I got to watch the replay, and it was almost as good as seeing it live.
As I watched the game, I was imagining, for some reason, a character who becomes a hockey fan late in life. After choosing his favorite team, he realizes that he also needs a least-favorite team, a hockey nemesis, as it were. This character is not based on me, of course, because I have the moral clarity to know that the only hockey nemesis that anyone ever needs is present in the form of the Pittsburgh Penguins, the most evil franchise in the worldwide history of professional sports. My character, lacking such moral clarity, chooses the Winnipeg Jets as his nemesis.
"Why Winnipeg?" his family and friends ask him. "What did Manitoba ever do to you?" He doesn't deign to justify his choice or explain his reasoning. He just glares at the TV as his team plays Winnipeg. "Fucking Winnipeg," he snarls, every time the Jets score. That eventually becomes his catchphrase: "Fucking Winnipeg."
*****
Who knows where that came from. Anyway, it's still Tuesday. Speaking of fans, I'm not a particular fan of Rex Tillerson, but he did call Donald Trump a fucking moron on a hot mic, and for that, he'll always have a place in my heart. Godspeed, Rex Tillerson.
*****
After I finished Slouching Towards Bethlehem, I read Havana, which is so far my least-favorite Joan Didion non-fiction. In some ways, it reads like a period piece, with its very Reagan-era preoccupation with Latin American revolutionary politics. Like lots of other literary intellectuals of the 20th century, Didion seems to have had a blind spot about Communism. I mean, I'm sure she's right about totalitarian ideological rigidity among the Cuban exile population in Miami in the 80s, but she doesn't say much about the conditions in Cuba that gave rise to their extremism. Like many other writers who wrote about Latin America in the 80s, she (rightly) condemns Somoza, but gives Castro a pass.
I couldn't decide what to read after Havana. I have a pretty large backlog on my Kindle, but nothing was calling out to me, so I decided to re-read The Thinking Reed, one of Rebecca West's best, and that's already a pretty high bar. It's just as good as I remembered. The book takes place in France in the years between the two world wars. One of the principal characters is an immensely wealthy French industrialist who, despite enormous success and power, completely lacks the inclination to abuse or take advantage of the poor or powerless. "Though his ties were with the strong and not with the weak, he would not have had a sparrow fall, anywhere in the world." I have noticed that not every rich and powerful person is like that.
The best part is that it's been so long since I've read it that I really don't remember how it ends. So I'm torn between wanting to rush through it to find out (again) what happens, and wanting to slow down a bit, so that it won't be over too soon.
*****
Thursday: Have you ever cleaned behind your refrigerator? If not, then I don't recommend it. Leave it alone. Nothing to see. The less said, the better.
It had been a long time since our kitchen had been painted, and so I talked my husband into doing it. The paint looks beautiful, but the kitchen is now in a horrifying state of disarray that makes me wonder, just for a minute, if the dingy walls maybe weren't so bad. I don't like disorder. And I have to pretty much leave it as it is for now, because he has to finish the job tomorrow. Horrifying. I'm hyperventilating just thinking about it.
*****
It's Saturday morning now. The kitchen is back in order, and you could eat off the floor behind the refrigerator. Well, you could, but I don't recommend it. I mean it's clean, but it's not perfect. It's still a floor. So don't eat off it. I'll give you a plate.
*****
And now it's Sunday, and I have just a few pages left of The Thinking Reed. When it's over, the weekend will be over. More importantly, I'll need to find something else to read. Too bad that Comey's book won't be out until next month. I continue to be torn between actually feeling sorry for Trump's unfortunate staff, enduing threats, insults, and firings via Twitter; and wondering what they expected when they chose to serve a bullying, vindictive, mean-spirited, draft-dodging, pants-on-fire lying coward. By the time the Comey book is released, there will probably be at least two or three more firings. My money is on McMaster and Sessions, but it could be anyone, I suppose.
Putin just won re-election by a landslide; and somewhere, a sparrow is probably falling. If it's a Russian sparrow, the richest and most powerful man in that country is claiming innocence and feigning outrage that anyone could accuse him of shooting down a sparrow, even as he continues to hold the gun. If it's an American sparrow, it has been subjected to weeks of poking with sticks, as its eventual killer decides if it would be more fun to shoot it out of a tree, or to just set a cat loose on it. I'm losing the thread on this metaphor, so I'll end this episode of sparrows here. Until next week...
As I watched the game, I was imagining, for some reason, a character who becomes a hockey fan late in life. After choosing his favorite team, he realizes that he also needs a least-favorite team, a hockey nemesis, as it were. This character is not based on me, of course, because I have the moral clarity to know that the only hockey nemesis that anyone ever needs is present in the form of the Pittsburgh Penguins, the most evil franchise in the worldwide history of professional sports. My character, lacking such moral clarity, chooses the Winnipeg Jets as his nemesis.
"Why Winnipeg?" his family and friends ask him. "What did Manitoba ever do to you?" He doesn't deign to justify his choice or explain his reasoning. He just glares at the TV as his team plays Winnipeg. "Fucking Winnipeg," he snarls, every time the Jets score. That eventually becomes his catchphrase: "Fucking Winnipeg."
*****
Who knows where that came from. Anyway, it's still Tuesday. Speaking of fans, I'm not a particular fan of Rex Tillerson, but he did call Donald Trump a fucking moron on a hot mic, and for that, he'll always have a place in my heart. Godspeed, Rex Tillerson.
*****
After I finished Slouching Towards Bethlehem, I read Havana, which is so far my least-favorite Joan Didion non-fiction. In some ways, it reads like a period piece, with its very Reagan-era preoccupation with Latin American revolutionary politics. Like lots of other literary intellectuals of the 20th century, Didion seems to have had a blind spot about Communism. I mean, I'm sure she's right about totalitarian ideological rigidity among the Cuban exile population in Miami in the 80s, but she doesn't say much about the conditions in Cuba that gave rise to their extremism. Like many other writers who wrote about Latin America in the 80s, she (rightly) condemns Somoza, but gives Castro a pass.
I couldn't decide what to read after Havana. I have a pretty large backlog on my Kindle, but nothing was calling out to me, so I decided to re-read The Thinking Reed, one of Rebecca West's best, and that's already a pretty high bar. It's just as good as I remembered. The book takes place in France in the years between the two world wars. One of the principal characters is an immensely wealthy French industrialist who, despite enormous success and power, completely lacks the inclination to abuse or take advantage of the poor or powerless. "Though his ties were with the strong and not with the weak, he would not have had a sparrow fall, anywhere in the world." I have noticed that not every rich and powerful person is like that.
The best part is that it's been so long since I've read it that I really don't remember how it ends. So I'm torn between wanting to rush through it to find out (again) what happens, and wanting to slow down a bit, so that it won't be over too soon.
*****
Thursday: Have you ever cleaned behind your refrigerator? If not, then I don't recommend it. Leave it alone. Nothing to see. The less said, the better.
It had been a long time since our kitchen had been painted, and so I talked my husband into doing it. The paint looks beautiful, but the kitchen is now in a horrifying state of disarray that makes me wonder, just for a minute, if the dingy walls maybe weren't so bad. I don't like disorder. And I have to pretty much leave it as it is for now, because he has to finish the job tomorrow. Horrifying. I'm hyperventilating just thinking about it.
*****
It's Saturday morning now. The kitchen is back in order, and you could eat off the floor behind the refrigerator. Well, you could, but I don't recommend it. I mean it's clean, but it's not perfect. It's still a floor. So don't eat off it. I'll give you a plate.
*****
And now it's Sunday, and I have just a few pages left of The Thinking Reed. When it's over, the weekend will be over. More importantly, I'll need to find something else to read. Too bad that Comey's book won't be out until next month. I continue to be torn between actually feeling sorry for Trump's unfortunate staff, enduing threats, insults, and firings via Twitter; and wondering what they expected when they chose to serve a bullying, vindictive, mean-spirited, draft-dodging, pants-on-fire lying coward. By the time the Comey book is released, there will probably be at least two or three more firings. My money is on McMaster and Sessions, but it could be anyone, I suppose.
Putin just won re-election by a landslide; and somewhere, a sparrow is probably falling. If it's a Russian sparrow, the richest and most powerful man in that country is claiming innocence and feigning outrage that anyone could accuse him of shooting down a sparrow, even as he continues to hold the gun. If it's an American sparrow, it has been subjected to weeks of poking with sticks, as its eventual killer decides if it would be more fun to shoot it out of a tree, or to just set a cat loose on it. I'm losing the thread on this metaphor, so I'll end this episode of sparrows here. Until next week...
Saturday, March 10, 2018
Lost and found
*****
When I'm stressed or worried, as I am now, I lose stuff, and forget stuff. So this morning, I lost my keys. I looked upstairs and downstairs (I was staying at my sister's house after a family party in Philadelphia; my house is a one-level 1969 ranch house that does not have stairs), in my coat pocket and in my handbag, and in my shoes, and in my suitcase; and under the furniture, and even in the car. No keys. My sister's dog, who loves me, followed me around the house, looking puzzled. Is it a game? Do I look inside the shoes, too? Is she taking me for a walk? Does she have bacon in her pocket?
Then I remembered that I have a Tile, and I rejoiced. Problem solved! I'll just open the app, and it will point me toward my keys, and then I will have my keys, and they won't be lost anymore!
Tile helpfully told me that the last place my keys had been seen was on the Schuylkill River Trail in Philadelphia. I was at my sister's house in Phoenixville, and if I hadn't driven my car there from Philadelphia, then I might have been fooled into believing that my keys were inches away from the murky waters of the Schuylkill. But I knew that the keys weren't in Philadelphia, because my car, which I had driven back to the suburbs, was sitting happily in the driveway.
Bluetooth, I thought. I bet the Bluetooth is off. But it wasn't. It was on. But the Tile kept telling me that the keys were last seen on the Schulkill River Trail, and that that would be a good place from which to commence a search. So helpful. The high-tech equivalent of "where did you have them last?" Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll go to Philadelphia, and start from there, working my way outward in ever-widening circles, gradually covering the entire world, until I find my keys.
I remembered, after one more desperate sweep of the house, that the boys and I had stowed our overnight bags in the cargo hold of the car, so I looked, and there they were. Thankfully, the car hadn't locked. 15 minutes later, a Tile "we found your keys" notification popped up on my phone. I was shocked at the temerity of this useless piece of Bluetooth-dependent plastic's outrageous claim that it had "found" the keys, when it was I who had hard-target searched for them in every farmhouse, outhouse, doghouse, and henhouse in the county.
"Bitch, you didn't find anything," I snapped at the little gray square dangling from my keychain. "You would have been more helpful," I said to the dog, who looked insulted.
*****
I suppose that keychain and henhouse should be written as two words, because Blogger is flagging them for spelling. So now I have keychains taking credit for finding themselves, and computers telling me how to spell, which is particularly galling, because my spelling skills are outstanding. And I'm really good at finding stuff, too. You have to be, when you lose stuff as often as I do.
*****
It's Monday now. This might be it for the week, because I think that work is going to take over my life for the next few days.
*****
And now it's Wednesday. Work has in fact taken over my life, but I have a few minutes while I wait for the chicken to finish cooking in the Instant Pot.
I was going to just leave this post as it was and call it a day. In fact, I should have written it in one sentence: "I was really depressed and anxious, and then I lost my keys, and then I found them." The End. But that's not how I roll, or write.
I read the sentence "I write every day" on a blog that I follow, and that was inspiring enough that I wanted to be able to say the same thing about myself. So here I am, writing again.
*****
On Friday, the very day after writing about writing every day, I didn't write a thing. Actually, that's not true at all. I wrote all day long on Thursday, but not here. It's very early Saturday morning now. My four-year-old nephew stayed overnight last night, and he woke up before dawn, as four-year-olds tend to do, especially when they're excited about hanging out with their teenage cousins. He's playing now and waiting impatiently for the boys to wake up. "Can we wake them up now?" he asked me a minute ago.
"Later," I said. "They need to sleep for a little while longer."
"OK," he said. "How 'bout five minutes?"
I'll hold him off for as long as I can, but I have a feeling that two teenage boys are about to wake up a lot earlier than they want to. For now, I'm going to end this heated mess with a piece of valuable advice: Don't run an iPod Nano through the washer and dryer, even if it's a little dirty. No good will come of that. This advice might or might not be the outcome of personal experience.
Saturday, March 3, 2018
Keeping it real
I just finished reading Slouching Towards Bethlehem, which should have rightly been titled Slouching Toward Bethlehem, but who am I to tell Joan Didion that we're not in the U.K. and we say toward and not towards. We're not, and we do. But that's one of the few criticisms that I can offer.
Well, that's one of the few criticisms of the writing, anyway. Nobody writes like Joan Didion, and if I could explain what makes her writing special--the combination of intimate personal detail with seeming cool detachment, the combination of ambiguity and moral clarity, the sharp social and cultural observation, both micro and macro--then maybe I'd be a better writer. But I can't explain it, so I won't try.
Even the best writers write some silly things, though. In "Notes from a Native Daughter," an essay about the Central Valley of California and her native Sacramento, she writes about the ruins of a huge estate that had once belonged to a Sacramento woman and her husband, a European nobleman. All that remained of the once-grand estate was a house trailer occupied by the couple's only son and heir. Commenting that the young people of Sacramento, the "children of the aerospace engineers," would never know about the grand estate and its occupants, and that they would grow up believing that "the Embarcadero....has about it the true flavor of the way it was," she laments that they "will have lost the real past and gained a manufactured one..."
When I was young, I read United States, a book of Gore Vidal essays. I don't remember much about it other than sharp writing and meanness. Gore Vidal was mean. But I think I remember a similar mournful thread of complaint about loss of authenticity in material things; paper napkins rather than cloth, paste rather than diamonds; and tiny, prefabricated suburban houses instead of stately Newport cottages. From Vidal, this kind of complaint reads as nothing much more than mid-century East Coast American snobbery. From Joan Didion, it reads as real sorrow over an actual loss. In both cases, a huge point is missed; that point being that either everything manmade is authentic, or nothing is. Either every aspect of our past is manufactured, or none of it is.
*****
Unrelated: Why are Joe Beninati and Craig Laughlin wearing "You Can Play" lapel pins? I just looked it up, and found nothing. And now I have a strange desire to collect lapel pins, or maybe even to wear one.
*****
It's the next day now. There was an additional point to the Joan Didion/Gore Vidal thread, but in typical fashion, I have forgotten it. So I'm going to let it stew for day or so, just allow it to marinate until it all comes back to me. Meanwhile, my 13-year-old made a special point of coming to find me and tell me that my favorite SpongeBob episode ("Tentacle Acres") was on TV. We watched it together. Like most SpongeBob episodes, "Tentacle Acres" is about original sin, which I think is a pretty profound observation, so don't ever say that you don't get deep philosophical insights around here. Joan Didion should call me, because I have more where that came from. Meanwhile, still nothing about the pins. I'm really eaten up with curiosity about this.
*****
I'm going to Philadelphia again this weekend. Another family party at the Canoe Club. The Canoe Club has been there for a long time, but I didn't know it when I was a child, so it's not part of my past. The stadium where I watched the Phillies play is no longer there; it was demolished in 2004. The parish school that I attended has closed, though the church remains. John Wanamaker's flagship store is now a Macy's, and Strawbridge & Clothier is gone. There are lots of other places from my Philadelphia childhood and youth; some gone forever, and some changed beyond recognition. Children who are growing up there now will have their own places. If they're young, they probably think that those places have been there forever, will be there forever, and will never change. Their parents know better. But it's all real, as real as anything built by people can be.
Well, that's one of the few criticisms of the writing, anyway. Nobody writes like Joan Didion, and if I could explain what makes her writing special--the combination of intimate personal detail with seeming cool detachment, the combination of ambiguity and moral clarity, the sharp social and cultural observation, both micro and macro--then maybe I'd be a better writer. But I can't explain it, so I won't try.
Even the best writers write some silly things, though. In "Notes from a Native Daughter," an essay about the Central Valley of California and her native Sacramento, she writes about the ruins of a huge estate that had once belonged to a Sacramento woman and her husband, a European nobleman. All that remained of the once-grand estate was a house trailer occupied by the couple's only son and heir. Commenting that the young people of Sacramento, the "children of the aerospace engineers," would never know about the grand estate and its occupants, and that they would grow up believing that "the Embarcadero....has about it the true flavor of the way it was," she laments that they "will have lost the real past and gained a manufactured one..."
When I was young, I read United States, a book of Gore Vidal essays. I don't remember much about it other than sharp writing and meanness. Gore Vidal was mean. But I think I remember a similar mournful thread of complaint about loss of authenticity in material things; paper napkins rather than cloth, paste rather than diamonds; and tiny, prefabricated suburban houses instead of stately Newport cottages. From Vidal, this kind of complaint reads as nothing much more than mid-century East Coast American snobbery. From Joan Didion, it reads as real sorrow over an actual loss. In both cases, a huge point is missed; that point being that either everything manmade is authentic, or nothing is. Either every aspect of our past is manufactured, or none of it is.
*****
Unrelated: Why are Joe Beninati and Craig Laughlin wearing "You Can Play" lapel pins? I just looked it up, and found nothing. And now I have a strange desire to collect lapel pins, or maybe even to wear one.
*****
It's the next day now. There was an additional point to the Joan Didion/Gore Vidal thread, but in typical fashion, I have forgotten it. So I'm going to let it stew for day or so, just allow it to marinate until it all comes back to me. Meanwhile, my 13-year-old made a special point of coming to find me and tell me that my favorite SpongeBob episode ("Tentacle Acres") was on TV. We watched it together. Like most SpongeBob episodes, "Tentacle Acres" is about original sin, which I think is a pretty profound observation, so don't ever say that you don't get deep philosophical insights around here. Joan Didion should call me, because I have more where that came from. Meanwhile, still nothing about the pins. I'm really eaten up with curiosity about this.
I'm going to Philadelphia again this weekend. Another family party at the Canoe Club. The Canoe Club has been there for a long time, but I didn't know it when I was a child, so it's not part of my past. The stadium where I watched the Phillies play is no longer there; it was demolished in 2004. The parish school that I attended has closed, though the church remains. John Wanamaker's flagship store is now a Macy's, and Strawbridge & Clothier is gone. There are lots of other places from my Philadelphia childhood and youth; some gone forever, and some changed beyond recognition. Children who are growing up there now will have their own places. If they're young, they probably think that those places have been there forever, will be there forever, and will never change. Their parents know better. But it's all real, as real as anything built by people can be.
Sunday, February 25, 2018
Distilled
It's 7:45 PM on Monday night. Today was a holiday, so it's been a lovely three-day weekend. I had to work yesterday, but it didn't matter. It still felt like a little vacation. There's something special about going to a movie--even a really bad movie--on Sunday night, and stopping for a drink afterward, and knowing that no one has to get up early the next morning. It was warmer than usual, and with crowds of movie- and restaurant-goers about, it felt more festive than a Saturday night.
*****
My older son was supposed to go to a school dance on Saturday night. He needed dress pants and shoes, and wanted a bow tie, so we went shopping. I suggested that he try gray pants with maybe a striped or windowpane checked shirt, but he decided to stick with black pants and a white shirt. He found a red bow tie with a matching red pocket square, and showed it to me. "What about this one?"
"No," I said. "With black pants, a white shirt, and a red bow tie, you'll look like a waiter. Do you want girls to dance with you, or tap you on the shoulder and ask you for another glass of punch?"
"Funny, Mom," he said. "You have jokes for days."
I do, I thought. I do have jokes for days.
An hour or so later, I realized that this might have been sarcasm, and not heartfelt admiration of my wit.
Sass.
We found pants, shoes, a bow tie, and a new white shirt. With the new clothes and a recent haircut, he looked very sharp; very stylish. The snow started as we left the store, and by 5 PM, a few inches of slushy wet snow had accumulated, and the dance was cancelled. He was disappointed, but not devastated. "I can wear the bow tie for Easter," he said.
*****
The bad movie was "The 15:17 to Paris." My 13-year-old loves ripped-from-the-headlines true-story movies, and the family movie outing was his idea. Let's just say that this one was a good story turned into a terrible movie. But we still had a good time. We stopped for drinks and a snack after the terrible movie and basked in the vacation atmosphere.
*****
All good things come to an end, and some more abruptly than others. This morning, I heard disturbing news. And that's all I can say about that. It will pass, and there will be better news tomorrow.
*****
Tuesday: It's tomorrow. Well, you know what I mean. No change from yesterday except that it's a day later. I'm watching the Capitals, who are down 3-0 in the 2nd against the Tampa Bay Lightning, and this is the good part of my day.
*****
Wednesday: The thing that weighed so heavily on my mind yesterday seems quite a bit less worrisome today.
Sometimes, I don't sleep. On those nights, burdened with worry or anxiety or lingering post-traumatic stress, I lie awake and think, or I just give up and get out of bed. I was wide awake this morning, and I finally decided that if I was still awake at 4, then I'd just get up. Then, a minute later, it was 4:45. I'd fallen asleep, and though it was just for a little while, it felt like a whole night of sleep had been distilled and concentrated into three quarters of an hour. Everything seemed much better then, much more manageable.
And now, I have to write a newsletter article. It will be at least a week late, which for me, is right on time.
*****
Saturday: Four-year-old house guests: It's all fun and games until someone ends up in the 3 AM vomit crossfire. My kids are older now, so it had been a long time since someone threw up on me in the middle of the night. He's all better now, and I too have recovered from the shock. Vomit wasn't the worst part of this rather icky week, but it's over now. Maybe next week, I'll write something that makes sense. No promises.
*****
My older son was supposed to go to a school dance on Saturday night. He needed dress pants and shoes, and wanted a bow tie, so we went shopping. I suggested that he try gray pants with maybe a striped or windowpane checked shirt, but he decided to stick with black pants and a white shirt. He found a red bow tie with a matching red pocket square, and showed it to me. "What about this one?"
"No," I said. "With black pants, a white shirt, and a red bow tie, you'll look like a waiter. Do you want girls to dance with you, or tap you on the shoulder and ask you for another glass of punch?"
"Funny, Mom," he said. "You have jokes for days."
I do, I thought. I do have jokes for days.
An hour or so later, I realized that this might have been sarcasm, and not heartfelt admiration of my wit.
Sass.
We found pants, shoes, a bow tie, and a new white shirt. With the new clothes and a recent haircut, he looked very sharp; very stylish. The snow started as we left the store, and by 5 PM, a few inches of slushy wet snow had accumulated, and the dance was cancelled. He was disappointed, but not devastated. "I can wear the bow tie for Easter," he said.
*****
The bad movie was "The 15:17 to Paris." My 13-year-old loves ripped-from-the-headlines true-story movies, and the family movie outing was his idea. Let's just say that this one was a good story turned into a terrible movie. But we still had a good time. We stopped for drinks and a snack after the terrible movie and basked in the vacation atmosphere.
*****
All good things come to an end, and some more abruptly than others. This morning, I heard disturbing news. And that's all I can say about that. It will pass, and there will be better news tomorrow.
*****
Tuesday: It's tomorrow. Well, you know what I mean. No change from yesterday except that it's a day later. I'm watching the Capitals, who are down 3-0 in the 2nd against the Tampa Bay Lightning, and this is the good part of my day.
*****
Wednesday: The thing that weighed so heavily on my mind yesterday seems quite a bit less worrisome today.
Sometimes, I don't sleep. On those nights, burdened with worry or anxiety or lingering post-traumatic stress, I lie awake and think, or I just give up and get out of bed. I was wide awake this morning, and I finally decided that if I was still awake at 4, then I'd just get up. Then, a minute later, it was 4:45. I'd fallen asleep, and though it was just for a little while, it felt like a whole night of sleep had been distilled and concentrated into three quarters of an hour. Everything seemed much better then, much more manageable.
And now, I have to write a newsletter article. It will be at least a week late, which for me, is right on time.
*****
Saturday: Four-year-old house guests: It's all fun and games until someone ends up in the 3 AM vomit crossfire. My kids are older now, so it had been a long time since someone threw up on me in the middle of the night. He's all better now, and I too have recovered from the shock. Vomit wasn't the worst part of this rather icky week, but it's over now. Maybe next week, I'll write something that makes sense. No promises.
Thursday, February 15, 2018
Clarinets, Guns, and Money
Wednesday: It's Ash Wednesday, which means Lent, which means no chocolate until Easter. Yes, I know; not quite the same as 40 days in the desert.
*****
And now it's Wednesday night. My older son had a concert at school tonight. Because this particular concert includes young musicians from the cluster of elementary and middle schools that feed into the high school, it's called the "cluster" concert. "Cluster" is descriptive in more ways than one, but that's a story for another day. Let's just say that it's a lot of kids making a lot of noise, not all of it musical.
The point of this concert is to show the progress that children can make if they continue to take music throughout their school careers. In Montgomery County, band programs start in fourth grade, and many of the students pick up an instrument or read a musical note for the very first time during their first band class. After just a few months, they can squeak out a tune in something close enough to unison that it can be performed in public. Again, "cluster" might not do this type of performance justice, but it's all part of the learning process. By middle school, they can play more complex pieces of music, with actual arrangements. By the time they reach high school, they are pretty decent musicians.
The cluster concerts begin with short performances (two or three songs) by the beginning groups, then move on to combined performances that include the advanced elementary and intermediate and advanced middle school bands. Then the high schoolers take the stage.
At my son's high school, the musicians perform in formal attire. The boys wear tuxedos, and the girls wear black dresses. After the younger musicians exit the stage, wearing dark pants or shorts with white polo shirts, the high school kids make a grand entrance, marching confidently into the auditorium, resplendent in black and white with instruments in hand. They usually get a big round of applause, which they obviously enjoy.
The concert was over in just an hour. I waited in the car as my son helped with clean-up, and then we came home and had a late dinner. Then we watched the news. In Parkland, Florida, children the same age as my son spent the afternoon hiding from a gunman. They weren't holding musical instruments when they were marched in single file out of the school, hands in the air like criminals, leaving behind the bloody, lifeless bodies of 17 of their classmates. And I wondered, what would the blood have looked like on crisp white tuxedo shirts?
Thursday: As always, thank God for all of the fucking thoughts and prayers, because otherwise, you might think that our elected leaders aren't doing a damn thing about routine mass slaughter of schoolchildren. And it just doesn't seem possible that leaders of the greatest country on earth would sit by and do absolutely fucking nothing as the bodies continue to pile up.
"What about Chicago?" That's one of my favorite NRA/Fox News/talk radio rejoinders in the gun control debate. Yes, everyone knows that the city with the country's strictest gun laws is also terribly violent. But if we're going to play "what about?" then I can go all fucking day. What about Canada? What about Australia? What about the UK? What about Japan? What about South Korea? What about Western Europe? What about every other industrialized democracy, similar to the U.S. in so many ways, except that they regulate gun sales, and their children don't get gunned down in their classrooms. What about that? That's my response to "What about Chicago?" Oh, and fuck you, NRA. That too.
Maybe it's not the time. Maybe that's it. It's been almost 20 years since Columbine. 20 years of "not the time." With 8 school shootings in 2018 (a rate of a little more than one per week), maybe the Twitter Thoughts and Prayers Brigade will let us know when the time is right to talk about doing something other than thinking and praying. Or maybe they'll wait until school shootings happen daily and no longer even merit news coverage.
Meanwhile, if you're wondering how much it costs to buy a Senator or a Representative, here's some comparison shopping information.
*****
And now it's Wednesday night. My older son had a concert at school tonight. Because this particular concert includes young musicians from the cluster of elementary and middle schools that feed into the high school, it's called the "cluster" concert. "Cluster" is descriptive in more ways than one, but that's a story for another day. Let's just say that it's a lot of kids making a lot of noise, not all of it musical.
The point of this concert is to show the progress that children can make if they continue to take music throughout their school careers. In Montgomery County, band programs start in fourth grade, and many of the students pick up an instrument or read a musical note for the very first time during their first band class. After just a few months, they can squeak out a tune in something close enough to unison that it can be performed in public. Again, "cluster" might not do this type of performance justice, but it's all part of the learning process. By middle school, they can play more complex pieces of music, with actual arrangements. By the time they reach high school, they are pretty decent musicians.
The cluster concerts begin with short performances (two or three songs) by the beginning groups, then move on to combined performances that include the advanced elementary and intermediate and advanced middle school bands. Then the high schoolers take the stage.
At my son's high school, the musicians perform in formal attire. The boys wear tuxedos, and the girls wear black dresses. After the younger musicians exit the stage, wearing dark pants or shorts with white polo shirts, the high school kids make a grand entrance, marching confidently into the auditorium, resplendent in black and white with instruments in hand. They usually get a big round of applause, which they obviously enjoy.
The concert was over in just an hour. I waited in the car as my son helped with clean-up, and then we came home and had a late dinner. Then we watched the news. In Parkland, Florida, children the same age as my son spent the afternoon hiding from a gunman. They weren't holding musical instruments when they were marched in single file out of the school, hands in the air like criminals, leaving behind the bloody, lifeless bodies of 17 of their classmates. And I wondered, what would the blood have looked like on crisp white tuxedo shirts?
Thursday: As always, thank God for all of the fucking thoughts and prayers, because otherwise, you might think that our elected leaders aren't doing a damn thing about routine mass slaughter of schoolchildren. And it just doesn't seem possible that leaders of the greatest country on earth would sit by and do absolutely fucking nothing as the bodies continue to pile up.
"What about Chicago?" That's one of my favorite NRA/Fox News/talk radio rejoinders in the gun control debate. Yes, everyone knows that the city with the country's strictest gun laws is also terribly violent. But if we're going to play "what about?" then I can go all fucking day. What about Canada? What about Australia? What about the UK? What about Japan? What about South Korea? What about Western Europe? What about every other industrialized democracy, similar to the U.S. in so many ways, except that they regulate gun sales, and their children don't get gunned down in their classrooms. What about that? That's my response to "What about Chicago?" Oh, and fuck you, NRA. That too.
Maybe it's not the time. Maybe that's it. It's been almost 20 years since Columbine. 20 years of "not the time." With 8 school shootings in 2018 (a rate of a little more than one per week), maybe the Twitter Thoughts and Prayers Brigade will let us know when the time is right to talk about doing something other than thinking and praying. Or maybe they'll wait until school shootings happen daily and no longer even merit news coverage.
Meanwhile, if you're wondering how much it costs to buy a Senator or a Representative, here's some comparison shopping information.
Thursday, February 8, 2018
Frame of reference
Sunday: I'm sick today. Again. I'm not sure why my immune system, once nearly impenetrable, has abandoned me. This actually feels like the flu, but I might be a little better today than yesterday. It's Sunday night at 6:30, and I haven't moved from the couch since I got out of bed this morning.
I hate being sick; it makes me anxious and depressed. But I got to watch six hours of Super Bowl pre-game coverage on TV, so there's that. I was half asleep at some point, when I heard my 13-year-old son say "Muzak? Why is he calling it 'Muzak'? Is that just a weird way of saying 'music'?"
"No," I said. "Muzak is a thing. It's hard to explain." So I tried to explain it and found that I was 100% right--it is hard to explain. My son was alternately curious and puzzled. "Did they only play it in elevators?"
"No," I said. "Elevators, and doctor's offices, and grocery stores--and other places."
"Why?" he asked. "Why did they have music in elevators? And why didn't they just play the real songs?"
"It's hard to explain," I said again. "But it was everywhere when I was growing up, and then it just became much less popular, and now you don't hear it anymore."
*****
So that's a lot of background for the next conversation with a kid; this time, the 16-year-old. I was waiting to drive him to a swim team event last week, and he decided to change his sweatshirt at the last minute. "Hurry up," I told him. "You're already running late."
"I know," he said, pulling off his red hooded sweatshirt. "But this sweatshirt looks weird. I feel like Little Red Robin Hood."
"Like who?" I asked.
"Little Red Robin Hood. You know--with the grandmother and the wolf?"
"You mean Little Red RIDING Hood?" I asked.
He scoffed. "That's not her name. It's Little Red Robin Hood. Isn't it?"
"No," I said, shaking my head. "It's not. There's Robin Hood, and there's Little Red Riding Hood. They're two different people. Not related."
"Hmm," he said. "I've been saying Little Red Robin Hood for a long time. Someone could have told me."
*****
Back to the 13-year-old, on another day last week.
"Mr. R's jokes don't make any sense," he said. Mr. R. is his band teacher.
"How so?" I asked. "Give me an example."
He thought for a moment. "OK. Here's one. What do you get when you throw a piano down a well?"
"I don't know," I said. "What?"
"A flat minor," he said. "See? What does that even mean?"
I thought for a minute. "Are you sure he said well? Did he maybe say mine shaft? What do you get when you throw a piano down a mine shaft?"
"Yeah!" he said. "He did say mine shaft! But that makes even less sense. What's a mine shaft?"
I explained what a mine shaft is. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then the look of recognition dawned. "OH! So it's a MINER and a MINOR! Like a guy who works in a mine, and a FLAT MINOR, like in music! Ha ha ha! That's actually a pretty good one!"
*****
Frame of reference is everything. I read to my children all the time when they were little, but I guess we missed the Little Red Riding Hood. I'm not sure what happened with the 13-year-old and the mine shaft and the well. I know that mining is a dying industry, but he's also never seen a well in his life, so I don't know how his mind subconsciously substituted well for mine shaft. And I never did ask what prompted the Muzak conversation in the first place. There are just so many things that were household words when I was their age, which are now obsolete, no longer even remembered.
*****
Tuesday: Some things, however, don't change that much. I just helped my 16-year-old with a paper SAT registration form. You still have to fill in the boxes with block letters, and then color in the little circles. What's different now is that you have to supply a picture. We didn't have a picture that met all of the specifications (of which there are many) so we took one and printed it.
He's wearing a different hoodie in this one. I wonder who reviews the applications; which College Board employee sees the thousands of pictures of eager, optimistic teenagers with their hoodies and their floppy hair, and their sweet, barely formed faces.
*****
Thursday: So I'm not much of a football fan, and I've lived in a Redskins household for many years, but I grew up in Philadelphia, among the hardest-core of hard-core Philadelphia sports fans. I watched the game from my sick-person nest on the couch, and although I'd been rooting for the Eagles all along, I was surprised at how happy I felt about the win. My grandfather was a huge fan, loyal through the franchise's worst years, when they made the Browns look like contenders. My brother and nephews are also dedicated fans. My brother, one of my sisters, four of my nephews, and my 72-year-old aunt all went to the parade today, which was patrolled by my cousin, a Philadelphia Police officer. I'm pretty sure that none of them punched horses or climbed light poles, but I saw some pictures of my hometown doing some crazy things. I'm happy for them. Fly Eagles Fly.
I hate being sick; it makes me anxious and depressed. But I got to watch six hours of Super Bowl pre-game coverage on TV, so there's that. I was half asleep at some point, when I heard my 13-year-old son say "Muzak? Why is he calling it 'Muzak'? Is that just a weird way of saying 'music'?"
"No," I said. "Muzak is a thing. It's hard to explain." So I tried to explain it and found that I was 100% right--it is hard to explain. My son was alternately curious and puzzled. "Did they only play it in elevators?"
"No," I said. "Elevators, and doctor's offices, and grocery stores--and other places."
"Why?" he asked. "Why did they have music in elevators? And why didn't they just play the real songs?"
"It's hard to explain," I said again. "But it was everywhere when I was growing up, and then it just became much less popular, and now you don't hear it anymore."
*****
So that's a lot of background for the next conversation with a kid; this time, the 16-year-old. I was waiting to drive him to a swim team event last week, and he decided to change his sweatshirt at the last minute. "Hurry up," I told him. "You're already running late."
"I know," he said, pulling off his red hooded sweatshirt. "But this sweatshirt looks weird. I feel like Little Red Robin Hood."
"Like who?" I asked.
"Little Red Robin Hood. You know--with the grandmother and the wolf?"
"You mean Little Red RIDING Hood?" I asked.
He scoffed. "That's not her name. It's Little Red Robin Hood. Isn't it?"
"No," I said, shaking my head. "It's not. There's Robin Hood, and there's Little Red Riding Hood. They're two different people. Not related."
"Hmm," he said. "I've been saying Little Red Robin Hood for a long time. Someone could have told me."
*****
Back to the 13-year-old, on another day last week.
"Mr. R's jokes don't make any sense," he said. Mr. R. is his band teacher.
"How so?" I asked. "Give me an example."
He thought for a moment. "OK. Here's one. What do you get when you throw a piano down a well?"
"I don't know," I said. "What?"
"A flat minor," he said. "See? What does that even mean?"
I thought for a minute. "Are you sure he said well? Did he maybe say mine shaft? What do you get when you throw a piano down a mine shaft?"
"Yeah!" he said. "He did say mine shaft! But that makes even less sense. What's a mine shaft?"
I explained what a mine shaft is. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then the look of recognition dawned. "OH! So it's a MINER and a MINOR! Like a guy who works in a mine, and a FLAT MINOR, like in music! Ha ha ha! That's actually a pretty good one!"
*****
Frame of reference is everything. I read to my children all the time when they were little, but I guess we missed the Little Red Riding Hood. I'm not sure what happened with the 13-year-old and the mine shaft and the well. I know that mining is a dying industry, but he's also never seen a well in his life, so I don't know how his mind subconsciously substituted well for mine shaft. And I never did ask what prompted the Muzak conversation in the first place. There are just so many things that were household words when I was their age, which are now obsolete, no longer even remembered.
*****
Tuesday: Some things, however, don't change that much. I just helped my 16-year-old with a paper SAT registration form. You still have to fill in the boxes with block letters, and then color in the little circles. What's different now is that you have to supply a picture. We didn't have a picture that met all of the specifications (of which there are many) so we took one and printed it.
He's wearing a different hoodie in this one. I wonder who reviews the applications; which College Board employee sees the thousands of pictures of eager, optimistic teenagers with their hoodies and their floppy hair, and their sweet, barely formed faces.
 |
| Head and shoulders visible; full face view (required). Floppy hair and hoodie (optional) |
*****
Thursday: So I'm not much of a football fan, and I've lived in a Redskins household for many years, but I grew up in Philadelphia, among the hardest-core of hard-core Philadelphia sports fans. I watched the game from my sick-person nest on the couch, and although I'd been rooting for the Eagles all along, I was surprised at how happy I felt about the win. My grandfather was a huge fan, loyal through the franchise's worst years, when they made the Browns look like contenders. My brother and nephews are also dedicated fans. My brother, one of my sisters, four of my nephews, and my 72-year-old aunt all went to the parade today, which was patrolled by my cousin, a Philadelphia Police officer. I'm pretty sure that none of them punched horses or climbed light poles, but I saw some pictures of my hometown doing some crazy things. I'm happy for them. Fly Eagles Fly.
Saturday, January 20, 2018
User Manual
I don't really make New Year's resolutions (though if I did, I'd probably get around to it about two weeks into the year). But this year, I did decide (not resolve--verb choice is everything, and to resolve is to de facto make a resolution, which I don't do) to try to force myself to learn new things.
If you hang around here at all, then maybe you're wondering "What on earth is she talking about? She doesn't seem to do anything other than write and read and drive kids around and compulsively clean her house, so she must be learning something from the reading part, at least." And you'd be right. But gaining knowledge (however useless) by reading a book and learning a practical skill are two entirely separate and distinct things. I do the former very well. I do the latter very badly.
For example, I'm writing this on the Chromebook that I bought a few months ago. There's a lot to love about this little mini-computer, including its light weight, compact size, semi-attractive design, and keyboard that is ideally suited to my hands. But there are many differences between working on this and working on a PC, and instead of taking a disciplined and orderly approach to learning how to use the Chromebook well, I'm doing it piecemeal, just looking up tricks and keyboard shortcuts when I need them (and promptly forgetting and having to look up the same tricks and shortcuts over and over again. Hello? Where is the delete key?)
Last year, my husband bought a Dyson vacuum cleaner for me, thinking that I'd rather have something lightweight and easy to maneuver. And it's a nice vacuum cleaner, which also looks interesting and colorful. But it's not well-designed, because I still can't figure out how to use the attachments. I tried one time and gave up. In my defense, it's a domestic appliance, and an obviously essential feature like the hand-held attachments should be so self-evidently easy to use that "figuring it out" shouldn't even enter into the equation. There's always a work-around; mine is making my husband attach them for me. Not perfect, but it gets the job done.
*****
If you're a member of the very broad demographic that includes suburban mothers ages 30-60, then you have probably read or heard about the Instant Pot. And you have probably asked friends about it, who have probably all told you that you MUST get one, immediately. But if you're me, you have ignored their advice, because one look at the picture of the Instant Pot suggests that it's a complicated little piece of machinery, and that even thinking about figuring out how to use it will stress you out.
So I resisted. Every time someone would tell me how life-changingly awesome the Instant Pot is, I'd think about buying one, but then I'd also think about having to figure out how to use it. But two weeks ago, I finally caved and ordered one from Amazon, and it arrived two days later.
I panicked for a moment when I arrived home from work and found the box waiting for me. Normally, I love packages, but I knew that I had to teach myself how to use the Instant Pot the minute I opened it, or it would sit on my kitchen counter, untouched, for months. Maybe years.So I left it in the box, just until the next day. And this is where this could easily have turned into a story about how, weeks later, the box remained unopened, a daily reminder of my practical incompetence and strong inclination toward procrastination, but I actually did open it the next day.
Almost immediately, I wished I hadn't. Aside from being packaged to within an inch of its life, it included accessories and an instruction manual and a recipe book and a "quick start" guide and spoons and measuring cups and various and sundry parts. On a list of things that provoke hyperventilating anxiety for me, complicated machinery ranks pretty near the top, but proliferation of stuff ranks even higher.
Here I was faced with a choice: Either breathe into a paper bag, gather my wits (such as they are), and figure it out; or gather up all of the parts and paper, throw it all back in the box, and run screaming from the house.
I went with Plan B.
The End.
*****
No, I'm kidding. First I got rid of the box, along with the forty pounds of styrofoam packing materials, plastic, and extraneous paper. Then I put the spoons and other plastic parts into the dishwasher. That left me with a reasonably manageable pile of stuff with which to tangle. I started with the diagram, making sure that I could identify all of the moving parts. Then I read through the rest of the instruction manual, until I felt confident that I knew, at least, how to tighten the lid properly (it's a pressure cooker, so you have to do that part right or it will blow up) and how to turn it on.
Armed with knowledge, I decided to try to poach a chicken breast. Success! A few days later, I cooked some rice, which also turned out fine. So far, I've only used it those two times, but now I have several more recipes to try; and the hard part, as far as I'm concerned, is out of the way.
Me: 1. Instant Pot: 0.
*****
High on success, I decided (not resolved) to tackle one practical challenge per month for the rest of 2018, so that by December, I'd have a dozen new and useful skills. And then the timesheet debacle happened.
People who work for the Federal government, or for government contractors, make up another pretty broad demographic (especially here in the DMV, where we're probably half the population). Those of us who work for contractors are required to carefully record every minute of time that we work, and to make sure that our government customers are billed for all of the time that we spend on their projects, but not for one minute more. This is pretty straightforward if you're 100% overhead (so none of your time is billable to the Feds) or if you're 100% embedded with a particular customer (so all of your time is billable to that customer). It gets complicated for people like me, who work on several different government projects, in addition to overhead projects.
Well, it's complicated now, anyway. We used to use a very simple online system, and it took me no more than five minutes a day, tops, to record my time. And then we decided to upgrade to a very well-known "enterprise" (God help me) system that I won't name here, but it rhymes with "Smell Tek," because it stinks. I won't burden you with details (too late). But many people who are far smarter than I (another very broad demographic) were completely flummoxed by the ridiculous complexity that this system has imposed on the once-simple task of recording work time.
So I'm taking February off. Instant Pot cooking and timekeeping count as my new skills for January and February. Maybe in March, I'll show the Chromebook who's boss.
*****
It's Saturday morning now. I'm hopeful that the politicians will figure out how to reopen the government, but as always, both sides are far more concerned with getting power and keeping it than with actually representing the interests of the people who elected them. "Schumer Shutdown" has a satisfying Fox News alliterative ring to it, of course, but it's just too ridiculous to even suggest that anyone other than the party that controls the Legislative and Executive branches is responsible for this. I'm not a Chuck Schumer fan (I can't stand most of the Democratic leadership) but this is the only shutdown that has ever occurred under one-party control. Anyway, I'm pretty sure that they'll figure it out today, because President Trump has a $100,000-a-person party tonight. By the way, good luck to all of those billionaires if they think they'll get a refund if Trump doesn't show up.
If you hang around here at all, then maybe you're wondering "What on earth is she talking about? She doesn't seem to do anything other than write and read and drive kids around and compulsively clean her house, so she must be learning something from the reading part, at least." And you'd be right. But gaining knowledge (however useless) by reading a book and learning a practical skill are two entirely separate and distinct things. I do the former very well. I do the latter very badly.
For example, I'm writing this on the Chromebook that I bought a few months ago. There's a lot to love about this little mini-computer, including its light weight, compact size, semi-attractive design, and keyboard that is ideally suited to my hands. But there are many differences between working on this and working on a PC, and instead of taking a disciplined and orderly approach to learning how to use the Chromebook well, I'm doing it piecemeal, just looking up tricks and keyboard shortcuts when I need them (and promptly forgetting and having to look up the same tricks and shortcuts over and over again. Hello? Where is the delete key?)
Last year, my husband bought a Dyson vacuum cleaner for me, thinking that I'd rather have something lightweight and easy to maneuver. And it's a nice vacuum cleaner, which also looks interesting and colorful. But it's not well-designed, because I still can't figure out how to use the attachments. I tried one time and gave up. In my defense, it's a domestic appliance, and an obviously essential feature like the hand-held attachments should be so self-evidently easy to use that "figuring it out" shouldn't even enter into the equation. There's always a work-around; mine is making my husband attach them for me. Not perfect, but it gets the job done.
*****
If you're a member of the very broad demographic that includes suburban mothers ages 30-60, then you have probably read or heard about the Instant Pot. And you have probably asked friends about it, who have probably all told you that you MUST get one, immediately. But if you're me, you have ignored their advice, because one look at the picture of the Instant Pot suggests that it's a complicated little piece of machinery, and that even thinking about figuring out how to use it will stress you out.
 |
| What is this, the space shuttle? I mean, that's a lot of buttons, right? |
I panicked for a moment when I arrived home from work and found the box waiting for me. Normally, I love packages, but I knew that I had to teach myself how to use the Instant Pot the minute I opened it, or it would sit on my kitchen counter, untouched, for months. Maybe years.So I left it in the box, just until the next day. And this is where this could easily have turned into a story about how, weeks later, the box remained unopened, a daily reminder of my practical incompetence and strong inclination toward procrastination, but I actually did open it the next day.
Almost immediately, I wished I hadn't. Aside from being packaged to within an inch of its life, it included accessories and an instruction manual and a recipe book and a "quick start" guide and spoons and measuring cups and various and sundry parts. On a list of things that provoke hyperventilating anxiety for me, complicated machinery ranks pretty near the top, but proliferation of stuff ranks even higher.
Here I was faced with a choice: Either breathe into a paper bag, gather my wits (such as they are), and figure it out; or gather up all of the parts and paper, throw it all back in the box, and run screaming from the house.
I went with Plan B.
The End.
*****
No, I'm kidding. First I got rid of the box, along with the forty pounds of styrofoam packing materials, plastic, and extraneous paper. Then I put the spoons and other plastic parts into the dishwasher. That left me with a reasonably manageable pile of stuff with which to tangle. I started with the diagram, making sure that I could identify all of the moving parts. Then I read through the rest of the instruction manual, until I felt confident that I knew, at least, how to tighten the lid properly (it's a pressure cooker, so you have to do that part right or it will blow up) and how to turn it on.
Armed with knowledge, I decided to try to poach a chicken breast. Success! A few days later, I cooked some rice, which also turned out fine. So far, I've only used it those two times, but now I have several more recipes to try; and the hard part, as far as I'm concerned, is out of the way.
Me: 1. Instant Pot: 0.
*****
High on success, I decided (not resolved) to tackle one practical challenge per month for the rest of 2018, so that by December, I'd have a dozen new and useful skills. And then the timesheet debacle happened.
People who work for the Federal government, or for government contractors, make up another pretty broad demographic (especially here in the DMV, where we're probably half the population). Those of us who work for contractors are required to carefully record every minute of time that we work, and to make sure that our government customers are billed for all of the time that we spend on their projects, but not for one minute more. This is pretty straightforward if you're 100% overhead (so none of your time is billable to the Feds) or if you're 100% embedded with a particular customer (so all of your time is billable to that customer). It gets complicated for people like me, who work on several different government projects, in addition to overhead projects.
Well, it's complicated now, anyway. We used to use a very simple online system, and it took me no more than five minutes a day, tops, to record my time. And then we decided to upgrade to a very well-known "enterprise" (God help me) system that I won't name here, but it rhymes with "Smell Tek," because it stinks. I won't burden you with details (too late). But many people who are far smarter than I (another very broad demographic) were completely flummoxed by the ridiculous complexity that this system has imposed on the once-simple task of recording work time.
So I'm taking February off. Instant Pot cooking and timekeeping count as my new skills for January and February. Maybe in March, I'll show the Chromebook who's boss.
*****
It's Saturday morning now. I'm hopeful that the politicians will figure out how to reopen the government, but as always, both sides are far more concerned with getting power and keeping it than with actually representing the interests of the people who elected them. "Schumer Shutdown" has a satisfying Fox News alliterative ring to it, of course, but it's just too ridiculous to even suggest that anyone other than the party that controls the Legislative and Executive branches is responsible for this. I'm not a Chuck Schumer fan (I can't stand most of the Democratic leadership) but this is the only shutdown that has ever occurred under one-party control. Anyway, I'm pretty sure that they'll figure it out today, because President Trump has a $100,000-a-person party tonight. By the way, good luck to all of those billionaires if they think they'll get a refund if Trump doesn't show up.
Monday, January 15, 2018
Time's up
Sunday: I was going to live-blog the Golden Globes, but then I got bored. Because it was boring. So so so boring. Boring and predictable. Not only did I predict the hours of insufferable, preachy identity politics (not that this took any special psychic powers) but I also predicted the very predictable post-show social media backlash. Seth Meyers was funny, and I was happy to see wins for Rachel Brosnahan and Sam Rockwell and Elisabeth Moss (who also wore my favorite dress of the night), but I couldn't watch the rest of it. Because I was SO BORED.
So I missed Oprah's speech, and I haven't gotten around to watching it. Another thing that I predicted (again, this didn't require a sixth sense, nor even a fifth one) was the proliferation of Oprah 2020 enthusiasm. I don't mind Oprah. I'm not a particular fan, but I certainly admire what she has accomplished, especially coming as she did from virtually nothing. And she'd be better than Trump, of course, but so would I, and I'm an idiot.
I think that what bothers me about the Oprah groundswell is that people keep expecting politicians to be saviors, and when the politicians fail, they expect celebrities to do the job. And they can't do it either, because someone already did.
Monday: I have been without a day planner for a full week of 2018, which means that I don't have a to-do list, which means that I don't know what to do.
I ordered a planner, which came right after Christmas, but it wasn't quite right. I thought about going back to my beloved Filofax, but then I decided to order another of a pocket planner that I had in 2015 (which is actually also pictured in the Filofax post from 2014, rereading which has prompted me to ask myself why I wrote an 800-word illustrated post about day planners, but that's a question for another day).
Wednesday: My new day planner arrived in the mail, and not a moment too soon. It's exactly the same one that I had in 2015, as I'd hoped. The second week of a new year without any sort of calendar, or agenda, or to-do list, and my life was in shambles. Another day, and the whole operation would have fallen apart.
Thursday: Just for fun, I decided to get the worst haircut that I have ever had in my entire life. Not so much too short, just crazy angles and layers and choppy ends that yielded the overall look of a crazy woman who impulsively cuts her own hair, And not necessarily with scissors.
Friday: I spent 25 minutes with a flatiron this morning, trying to organize and subdue my hair, but to no avail. 25 minutes might not seem like much, but I'm accustomed to a five- to seven-minute hairstyling routine. 25 minutes puts a serious dent in my day. I mean, if I have to spend 25 minutes a day fixing my hair, then when will I have time to blog about nothing? It's an issue.
My husband texted me later in the day, to tell me that he felt a bit flu-ish. I texted back:
I'm sorry to hear that. But I have a shit show growing out of my head. There are worse things than flu.
Though I was loath to let anyone wielding scissors near my head again, I made an emergency hair-fixing appointment for Friday night. The hairstylist looked at my hair with a mixture of puzzlement and dismay. "Wait," she said, "a hairdresser did this?"
"Right?" I said. "I know that you're thinking that I must have cut it myself, but I promise you that I paid someone actual money to do this to me." My hair was horrifying, but validation is always satisfying.
"Hmm," she said. "Well, I can give you a really good haircut, but it will be much shorter than you're probably used to. Or I can just clean this up as best I can. It won't be perfect, but you'll be able to live with it."
I opted for Plan B. It's not perfect, but I can live with it.
Saturday: My house is full of teenagers, only two of whom live here. It's loud, so I'm holed up in a bedroom, reading and writing and watching "Breaking Bad" reruns. I emerge every so often, just to prevent breakdown of law and order.
Sunday: I went with friends to see "Lady Bird," which I loved; except that we had to sit in the front row, which I hated. The front-row seats, which were the only ones available, cost exactly the same as the seats from which you can actually see the screen, which doesn't seem fair to me. It's an artsy theater, which prides itself on offering a superior movie experience, so later on, I sent them a sharply worded email, just like my grandmother would do, if she knew how to use a computer. I don't expect them to do anything, but I'll probably troll them via email for a few weeks, just for fun.
Hmm. Maybe I should spend more time on my hair.
So I missed Oprah's speech, and I haven't gotten around to watching it. Another thing that I predicted (again, this didn't require a sixth sense, nor even a fifth one) was the proliferation of Oprah 2020 enthusiasm. I don't mind Oprah. I'm not a particular fan, but I certainly admire what she has accomplished, especially coming as she did from virtually nothing. And she'd be better than Trump, of course, but so would I, and I'm an idiot.
I think that what bothers me about the Oprah groundswell is that people keep expecting politicians to be saviors, and when the politicians fail, they expect celebrities to do the job. And they can't do it either, because someone already did.
Monday: I have been without a day planner for a full week of 2018, which means that I don't have a to-do list, which means that I don't know what to do.
I ordered a planner, which came right after Christmas, but it wasn't quite right. I thought about going back to my beloved Filofax, but then I decided to order another of a pocket planner that I had in 2015 (which is actually also pictured in the Filofax post from 2014, rereading which has prompted me to ask myself why I wrote an 800-word illustrated post about day planners, but that's a question for another day).
Wednesday: My new day planner arrived in the mail, and not a moment too soon. It's exactly the same one that I had in 2015, as I'd hoped. The second week of a new year without any sort of calendar, or agenda, or to-do list, and my life was in shambles. Another day, and the whole operation would have fallen apart.
Thursday: Just for fun, I decided to get the worst haircut that I have ever had in my entire life. Not so much too short, just crazy angles and layers and choppy ends that yielded the overall look of a crazy woman who impulsively cuts her own hair, And not necessarily with scissors.
Friday: I spent 25 minutes with a flatiron this morning, trying to organize and subdue my hair, but to no avail. 25 minutes might not seem like much, but I'm accustomed to a five- to seven-minute hairstyling routine. 25 minutes puts a serious dent in my day. I mean, if I have to spend 25 minutes a day fixing my hair, then when will I have time to blog about nothing? It's an issue.
My husband texted me later in the day, to tell me that he felt a bit flu-ish. I texted back:
I'm sorry to hear that. But I have a shit show growing out of my head. There are worse things than flu.
Though I was loath to let anyone wielding scissors near my head again, I made an emergency hair-fixing appointment for Friday night. The hairstylist looked at my hair with a mixture of puzzlement and dismay. "Wait," she said, "a hairdresser did this?"
"Right?" I said. "I know that you're thinking that I must have cut it myself, but I promise you that I paid someone actual money to do this to me." My hair was horrifying, but validation is always satisfying.
"Hmm," she said. "Well, I can give you a really good haircut, but it will be much shorter than you're probably used to. Or I can just clean this up as best I can. It won't be perfect, but you'll be able to live with it."
I opted for Plan B. It's not perfect, but I can live with it.
Saturday: My house is full of teenagers, only two of whom live here. It's loud, so I'm holed up in a bedroom, reading and writing and watching "Breaking Bad" reruns. I emerge every so often, just to prevent breakdown of law and order.
Sunday: I went with friends to see "Lady Bird," which I loved; except that we had to sit in the front row, which I hated. The front-row seats, which were the only ones available, cost exactly the same as the seats from which you can actually see the screen, which doesn't seem fair to me. It's an artsy theater, which prides itself on offering a superior movie experience, so later on, I sent them a sharply worded email, just like my grandmother would do, if she knew how to use a computer. I don't expect them to do anything, but I'll probably troll them via email for a few weeks, just for fun.
Hmm. Maybe I should spend more time on my hair.
Sunday, January 7, 2018
Children play in the dark
I haven't gotten around to writing my 2017 book list yet. It won't be as long as the ones from 2016 and 2015. I'm one book into 2018 now, having just finished Joan Didion's The White Album. This was my first for 2018, and my second Joan Didion and I think that I like her non-fiction better, at least based on this limited selection. She's pretty prolific, so I'll probably read a few more.
In "On the Morning After the Sixties," one of the last essays in The White Album, Didion writes about college life in the early 1950s, when she studied at Berkeley, and "the extent to which the narrative on which many of us grew up no longer applies." I remember reading, a long time ago, something about hand-washing wool sweaters and blocking them on Turkish towels. I think this might have been part of Jacqueline Kennedy's famous Prix de Paris essay, which I cannot find online (Joan Didion was also a Prix de Paris winner); or maybe it was advice from one of the characters in The Group. I didn't know what it meant to "block" a sweater; though I assumed that it meant simply to reshape it so that it dries neatly; and I also didn't know what was special about a Turkish towel versus any other variety.
The point is that Joan Didion, born in the 1930s and educated in the 1950s, is a member of the last generation of American women who would have known how to block a sweater, and who would have been able to identify a towel as Turkish without looking at the label.
I was thinking about this as I sat at a table at Chadwick's Restaurant in Audobon, PA, with my husband and sons and my sister and brother-in-law and nephews. It was December 28, a weeknight, still early enough in the holiday week that you can revel in several more days of leisured Christmas coziness, but late enough that you're already thinking about the return to work, and school, and daily routines. Chadwick's is a nice place, so I found it odd that there wasn't a convenient coat rack to be found, and we had to hang our bulky coats and sweaters and scarves on the backs of our chairs. This would have annoyed Joan Didion, I thought; enough that she might even have written about the sad decline in standards that has made it perfectly acceptable for nice restaurants to offer paper napkins and paper packets of sugar and paper-wrapped straws, and no place to hang your coat.
*****
The live musician was just starting a break when we arrived, so the restaurant played recorded music. In the Philadelphia suburbs, you can switch stations on your car radio all day long, and never hear anything recorded after 1985 or so, and the recorded music selection at Chadwick's did not vary from local custom. The first track we heard was England Dan and John Ford Coley's Light of the World.
*****
You know, sometimes I lose the thread on these things. I start with an idea, but I forget details. And sometimes, I remember every detail, but have no idea why they're relevant. I think I had a point when I started this, but I can't remember to save my life what it was. Something about Chicago? But it's too late to abandon it now. I'm too far in.
*****
Oh, I know why I was thinking about Chicago! It was the band Chicago, and not the city! Because of the Gateway Pharmacy. That's it.
Yes, I see that I need to back things up a bit. I'll begin (yes, I know--too late) by saying that I'm not particularly nostalgic about most things. Time marches on, and all that. Things change. But like any other almost-old person, there are things about my childhood and youth that I miss. One of those things is old-fashioned neighborhood pharmacies. No, not the kind with the soda fountains, because I'm old, not ancient. I'm talking about the kind of neighborhood pharmacy where you could buy candy and gift items and greeting cards and perfume and I suppose you can buy all of that at Rite-Aid, but it's different. The Gateway Pharmacy is like the 1978-1983 Tardis stop. And I'm not nostalgic for that particular period of time at all, but drugstores were definitely better then. I didn't know that they still made Alyssa Ashley Musk, or Vitabath, or Fa, but apparently they do, and the shelves full of vintage toiletries aren't just nostalgia props. I thought about the extent to which so much of the narrative on which I grew up no longer applies, and smelled the Charlie tester, and sang along to Chicago's "Make Me Smile."
*****
And once again, I don't remember how I was going to finish this now way-off-the-rails post. Joan Didion would probably be horrified at this rambling mess. I'm reading Fire and Fury now, because of course I'm reading Fire and Fury. And although I can't resist "stable genius" jokes (which are never going to get old), I'm actually sorrier for Trump now than I am angry at him, because I believe that he might be well on his way to losing his mind, and it's never funny to see the deterioration of a human person. But I'm plenty angry at the sycophants who are loyal to Trump at the expense of loyalty to right over wrong; and even angrier at the cynical politicians who are willing to use this falling-apart mess of a man as a tool toward their own ends. The narrative on which I grew up no longer applies; and the narrative on which my children are growing up gets crazier every day. And love is still the answer, and always was, and always will be.
In "On the Morning After the Sixties," one of the last essays in The White Album, Didion writes about college life in the early 1950s, when she studied at Berkeley, and "the extent to which the narrative on which many of us grew up no longer applies." I remember reading, a long time ago, something about hand-washing wool sweaters and blocking them on Turkish towels. I think this might have been part of Jacqueline Kennedy's famous Prix de Paris essay, which I cannot find online (Joan Didion was also a Prix de Paris winner); or maybe it was advice from one of the characters in The Group. I didn't know what it meant to "block" a sweater; though I assumed that it meant simply to reshape it so that it dries neatly; and I also didn't know what was special about a Turkish towel versus any other variety.
The point is that Joan Didion, born in the 1930s and educated in the 1950s, is a member of the last generation of American women who would have known how to block a sweater, and who would have been able to identify a towel as Turkish without looking at the label.
I was thinking about this as I sat at a table at Chadwick's Restaurant in Audobon, PA, with my husband and sons and my sister and brother-in-law and nephews. It was December 28, a weeknight, still early enough in the holiday week that you can revel in several more days of leisured Christmas coziness, but late enough that you're already thinking about the return to work, and school, and daily routines. Chadwick's is a nice place, so I found it odd that there wasn't a convenient coat rack to be found, and we had to hang our bulky coats and sweaters and scarves on the backs of our chairs. This would have annoyed Joan Didion, I thought; enough that she might even have written about the sad decline in standards that has made it perfectly acceptable for nice restaurants to offer paper napkins and paper packets of sugar and paper-wrapped straws, and no place to hang your coat.
*****
The live musician was just starting a break when we arrived, so the restaurant played recorded music. In the Philadelphia suburbs, you can switch stations on your car radio all day long, and never hear anything recorded after 1985 or so, and the recorded music selection at Chadwick's did not vary from local custom. The first track we heard was England Dan and John Ford Coley's Light of the World.
*****
You know, sometimes I lose the thread on these things. I start with an idea, but I forget details. And sometimes, I remember every detail, but have no idea why they're relevant. I think I had a point when I started this, but I can't remember to save my life what it was. Something about Chicago? But it's too late to abandon it now. I'm too far in.
*****
Oh, I know why I was thinking about Chicago! It was the band Chicago, and not the city! Because of the Gateway Pharmacy. That's it.
Yes, I see that I need to back things up a bit. I'll begin (yes, I know--too late) by saying that I'm not particularly nostalgic about most things. Time marches on, and all that. Things change. But like any other almost-old person, there are things about my childhood and youth that I miss. One of those things is old-fashioned neighborhood pharmacies. No, not the kind with the soda fountains, because I'm old, not ancient. I'm talking about the kind of neighborhood pharmacy where you could buy candy and gift items and greeting cards and perfume and I suppose you can buy all of that at Rite-Aid, but it's different. The Gateway Pharmacy is like the 1978-1983 Tardis stop. And I'm not nostalgic for that particular period of time at all, but drugstores were definitely better then. I didn't know that they still made Alyssa Ashley Musk, or Vitabath, or Fa, but apparently they do, and the shelves full of vintage toiletries aren't just nostalgia props. I thought about the extent to which so much of the narrative on which I grew up no longer applies, and smelled the Charlie tester, and sang along to Chicago's "Make Me Smile."
*****
And once again, I don't remember how I was going to finish this now way-off-the-rails post. Joan Didion would probably be horrified at this rambling mess. I'm reading Fire and Fury now, because of course I'm reading Fire and Fury. And although I can't resist "stable genius" jokes (which are never going to get old), I'm actually sorrier for Trump now than I am angry at him, because I believe that he might be well on his way to losing his mind, and it's never funny to see the deterioration of a human person. But I'm plenty angry at the sycophants who are loyal to Trump at the expense of loyalty to right over wrong; and even angrier at the cynical politicians who are willing to use this falling-apart mess of a man as a tool toward their own ends. The narrative on which I grew up no longer applies; and the narrative on which my children are growing up gets crazier every day. And love is still the answer, and always was, and always will be.
Monday, January 1, 2018
January 1, 2018
It's the day after Christmas. We went to the National Building Museum today, and then for a late lunch-slash-early dinner at the Irish Channel, one of our favorite places. Right now, I'm sitting on the family room couch of my once-again clean house. My 13-year-old son is playing Madden 18, trash-talking with his 11-year-old opponent over VOiP or whatever technology makes it possible for two boys who live a mile away to talk without a telephone or a radio. My son is wearing a brand-new Washington Capitals fleece pullover, slightly too big, a Christmas present from my sister-in-law; with fuzzy socks and sweatpants. A plate with a half-eaten slice of pie sits on the coffee table, and there's a fire in the fireplace. There are few moments of perfect contentment in life. For a 13-year-old boy, pie and Madden and fuzzy socks and Christmas vacation are the only necessary ingredients.
*****
It's the day before New Year's Eve, and Christmas vacation, always too short, is almost over. We visited family in Philadelphia for two days, and returned to an icy cold house. There was much more snow in Philadelphia than we have here, but it hasn't gotten anywhere near the freezing mark (moving upward, that is) either there or here. It's a few hours later now, and the house has warmed up considerably.
I woke up at my sister's house this morning, and decided to go out to our beloved Wawa to get coffee for the adults and breakfast treats for the kids. The snow was falling pretty heavily, and the street looked icy, but I was particularly determined to fight my natural inclination to stay inside.
As prone to irrational fear and panic attacks as I am, driving in bad weather does not scare me. I concentrate very intently when I'm driving on an icy road, and when the car begins to slide, I steer into the skid and pump the brakes (from the knee, not the ankle) and breathe deeply as I regain control of the car. I don't even panic as I watch other cars fishtailing and skidding; in fact, something almost opposite of panic occurs. I don't believe in Zen, but driving in the snow is as close to Zen as I ever get. I glanced at a tow truck that was preparing to tow a Corolla that had wiped out on Route 23, and kept driving. The coffee was delicious.
*****
4:40 PM on New Year's Day. At 4:00, the light was perfect, but now it's begun to fade. The days are getting just a tiny bit longer, but it'll still be dark in 30 minutes or so. Dark and very cold, but only for now. Happy New Year.
*****
It's the day before New Year's Eve, and Christmas vacation, always too short, is almost over. We visited family in Philadelphia for two days, and returned to an icy cold house. There was much more snow in Philadelphia than we have here, but it hasn't gotten anywhere near the freezing mark (moving upward, that is) either there or here. It's a few hours later now, and the house has warmed up considerably.
I woke up at my sister's house this morning, and decided to go out to our beloved Wawa to get coffee for the adults and breakfast treats for the kids. The snow was falling pretty heavily, and the street looked icy, but I was particularly determined to fight my natural inclination to stay inside.
As prone to irrational fear and panic attacks as I am, driving in bad weather does not scare me. I concentrate very intently when I'm driving on an icy road, and when the car begins to slide, I steer into the skid and pump the brakes (from the knee, not the ankle) and breathe deeply as I regain control of the car. I don't even panic as I watch other cars fishtailing and skidding; in fact, something almost opposite of panic occurs. I don't believe in Zen, but driving in the snow is as close to Zen as I ever get. I glanced at a tow truck that was preparing to tow a Corolla that had wiped out on Route 23, and kept driving. The coffee was delicious.
*****
4:40 PM on New Year's Day. At 4:00, the light was perfect, but now it's begun to fade. The days are getting just a tiny bit longer, but it'll still be dark in 30 minutes or so. Dark and very cold, but only for now. Happy New Year.
Sunday, December 24, 2017
A creature was stirring
We have a mouse. Not a pet, but an unwelcome rodent invader.
Gross.
We last had a mouse during a cold snap in 2011 or 2012, and we hadn't seen or heard one since. Then one day last week, I heard a sound that could only be described as "scurrying," but whatever was scurrying stayed out of sight. The next day, my husband said that he saw a gray streak flash by; and then the day after that, I saw the actual live-in-the-flesh mouse.
So gross.
My husband called the exterminator, and they came out and set traps. Something, as I pointed out, that we could easily have done ourselves, saving the almost $250 per year that we pay the exterminator (but that's a story for another day). After a few days, to no one's surprise, the mouse remained at large. So my husband took matters into his own hands, and built a better mousetrap.
*****
A long time ago, when the boys were little, the three of them were obsessed with keeping the rabbits out of our tomatoes. They'd set Havahart traps in the backyard, and in the mornings, they would drive to a park and let the rabbits go. This went on all summer, until one night, we left the gate open by accident, and some deer came in and ate all of the tomatoes. With the tomato crop ravaged, there was no longer any reason to force the rabbits into exile. We packed away the traps, and the rabbits roamed freely once again.
Another battle in the long war between my husband and the rodents involved unauthorized squirrel access to his beloved birdfeeder. After a few days of studying the squirrels and their habits, he fashioned a squirrel-proof birdfeeder out of an actual birdfeeder, several frisbees, and part of an umbrella. I can't describe it any better than that. Use your imagination. The thing actually worked, though it looked ridiculous hanging from the tree in our front yard.
*****
So the mouse is round three. There are mouse traps everywhere, and my husband has constructed barriers for the doorways, using cardboard boxes. The barriers have small holes, baited and booby-trapped. Wile E. Korean is quite sure that the mouse will be irresistibly drawn to the hole, and will run through it, only to be inextricably trapped on the other side.
It's now the third morning since these makeshift walls were erected (I have to step over them to get through the doorway) and we haven't trapped a mouse yet. I make my husband get up to check, because I don't want to be the first person to see a trapped mouse at 6 in the morning.
*****
We finally caught the mouse the day after I wrote this. Not a moment too soon, as I'd begun to worry about new and extreme measures threatened by the male members of the household. I had already caught my 16-year-old son patrolling the kitchen, armed with a loaded BB gun. ("Mom. Trust me. It ran under the stove, and it has to come out eventually. When it does, I'll pop a cap in its ass.") Again, teenage boys are idiots, in case you missed my last post. Meanwhile, I'd begun to be afraid to walk through my own house in the dark, for fear that I'd end up in a bear trap, or hanging upside down by my ankle from a zip line.
So the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, and humans are the only creatures stirring, and that's the way we like it. Merry Christmas.
Gross.
We last had a mouse during a cold snap in 2011 or 2012, and we hadn't seen or heard one since. Then one day last week, I heard a sound that could only be described as "scurrying," but whatever was scurrying stayed out of sight. The next day, my husband said that he saw a gray streak flash by; and then the day after that, I saw the actual live-in-the-flesh mouse.
So gross.
My husband called the exterminator, and they came out and set traps. Something, as I pointed out, that we could easily have done ourselves, saving the almost $250 per year that we pay the exterminator (but that's a story for another day). After a few days, to no one's surprise, the mouse remained at large. So my husband took matters into his own hands, and built a better mousetrap.
*****
A long time ago, when the boys were little, the three of them were obsessed with keeping the rabbits out of our tomatoes. They'd set Havahart traps in the backyard, and in the mornings, they would drive to a park and let the rabbits go. This went on all summer, until one night, we left the gate open by accident, and some deer came in and ate all of the tomatoes. With the tomato crop ravaged, there was no longer any reason to force the rabbits into exile. We packed away the traps, and the rabbits roamed freely once again.
Another battle in the long war between my husband and the rodents involved unauthorized squirrel access to his beloved birdfeeder. After a few days of studying the squirrels and their habits, he fashioned a squirrel-proof birdfeeder out of an actual birdfeeder, several frisbees, and part of an umbrella. I can't describe it any better than that. Use your imagination. The thing actually worked, though it looked ridiculous hanging from the tree in our front yard.
*****
So the mouse is round three. There are mouse traps everywhere, and my husband has constructed barriers for the doorways, using cardboard boxes. The barriers have small holes, baited and booby-trapped. Wile E. Korean is quite sure that the mouse will be irresistibly drawn to the hole, and will run through it, only to be inextricably trapped on the other side.
 |
| Did you think I was kidding? |
It's now the third morning since these makeshift walls were erected (I have to step over them to get through the doorway) and we haven't trapped a mouse yet. I make my husband get up to check, because I don't want to be the first person to see a trapped mouse at 6 in the morning.
*****
We finally caught the mouse the day after I wrote this. Not a moment too soon, as I'd begun to worry about new and extreme measures threatened by the male members of the household. I had already caught my 16-year-old son patrolling the kitchen, armed with a loaded BB gun. ("Mom. Trust me. It ran under the stove, and it has to come out eventually. When it does, I'll pop a cap in its ass.") Again, teenage boys are idiots, in case you missed my last post. Meanwhile, I'd begun to be afraid to walk through my own house in the dark, for fear that I'd end up in a bear trap, or hanging upside down by my ankle from a zip line.
So the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, and humans are the only creatures stirring, and that's the way we like it. Merry Christmas.
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Ghosts appear and fade away
Sunday: This morning was a legitimately cold December morning; cold by anyone's standards, which means bloody well freezing for me. But I couldn't sleep past 6:30, so I went for a walk anyway.
With enough clothing, the temperature was just bearable, and even I had to admit that it was a really beautiful, sparkling morning. There was still a coating of snow on the grass, leftover from the tiny bit of snow that fell on Friday, and it was sunny and clear, but just a tiny bit misty. Beautiful.
I walked past the pool, which was frozen over, with a dusting of snow on the deck. Later, I heard that one of the neighborhood boys had posted Instagram video of himself and his dog, walking on the frozen water. Teenage boys are idiots; this is something that I have personal experience with. No more so than the rest of us, of course, but idiots in their own particular way. I myself did more stupid things this week alone than I'm prepared to write about on this blog, but you can trust me that walking out onto the surface of a frozen swimming pool was not among them. Idiots.
*****
Sometimes I like to listen to NPR when I walk, but I usually like to listen to music. My husband and I share an iTunes library, and I usually just put the whole thing on shuffle and listen to whatever shows up (within reason), but this morning, I felt like selecting songs. I found a playlist with my name on it (literally; it was named "Claire") so I started the first song and was on my way.
It was a good playlist, beginning with my beloved Erasure's "Heart of Stone." Sometimes, I get tired of even my favorite songs, and I skip past them, but I can't remember ever skipping over "Heart of Stone."
It got even better, with Gladys Knight and the Pips "Midnight Train to Georgia." I'm always all aboard for "Midnight Train."
Three excellent songs in a row! The third was Men at Work's "Overkill" (the acoustic version). I've always liked the original recording of this song, but I really love the acoustic version, and the lyrics are my life on the radio:
Especially at night
I worry over situations
I know will be all right
Perhaps it's just imagination
But day after day, it reappears
Night after night, my heartbeat shows the fear
Ghosts appear and fade away.
Anyway, these songs were among my favorites when I made the playlist, probably sometime around 2012 or so. They held up.
*****
One reason why I like to go out walking early on Sunday morning is that I like to sing, and there are only a handful of people out at 7:30 on Sunday morning. Running Lady, The World's Happiest Dog and his person, Bike Helmet Guy, and maybe a few others here or there, but mostly, I have the streets to myself. And I need the streets to myself. Alone on the streets, I'm free to really cry for your heart of stone. And when L.A. proves too much for the man, I can sing, loudly, about his decision to leave the life that he'd come to know. In fact, I usually sing "Midnight Train" twice: Once as Gladys, and once as a Pip.
*****
One reason why I like to go out walking early on Sunday morning is that I like to sing, and there are only a handful of people out at 7:30 on Sunday morning. Running Lady, The World's Happiest Dog and his person, Bike Helmet Guy, and maybe a few others here or there, but mostly, I have the streets to myself. And I need the streets to myself. Alone on the streets, I'm free to really cry for your heart of stone. And when L.A. proves too much for the man, I can sing, loudly, about his decision to leave the life that he'd come to know. In fact, I usually sing "Midnight Train" twice: Once as Gladys, and once as a Pip.
I know both parts equally well, and I slay them both.
The low battery warning came just as I was turning back on to my street, about halfway through a performance of David Bowie's "Modern Love" that would have blown the roof off the joint, had I not been outside. It was a good walk, and a good morning.
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