Leap

It wasn't a Leap Day when I proposed to D. Anyway, he said no.

We never wanted to do anything but spend the rest of our lives together. But he was a bit younger, still bound to a military contract, however part-time reserve. Both of us resistant to the societal pressures to conform. His sprung from a religious background that would have him off on a mission, then marrying soon after, with a passel of children to follow. With all the symbols searing, the Ring, the tidy fenced yard, the minivan, the soul crushing job, retirement, then death. For me, it was a deep aversion to weddings, and fear of the kind of marriage I'd just escaped from.

Only someone as amazing as D could ever have allayed my fears. D needed a similar reassurance, and time. Experiences to draw upon. A little distance from his parent's influence. He still needed their approval, their respect. He couldn't do it in the way they expected. And the local wedding traditions were a bit of a nightmare for him. (As for me, when I finally understood them.) Nor would I ever have converted, a temple ceremony an impossibility. He would explain this differently, this is just how I saw it.

Eventually, the idea grew that a legal marriage would not be a bad thing. I always say his father proposed, giving D the nudge, saying "Fifteen minutes in the Bishop's office, make us happy." It turned out to be an hour in their living room, with LDS bishop, and three brothers wearing ties, a balloon bouquet and an angel food cake. I was getting over the flu, and went to visit my parents in Detroit the next day - alone. Still, turned out all right. And we relish our tiny-wedding story.

Well, we've always done the traditional things backward, with a twist. Buying a house last seemed about right.

Came across a cartoon,"If my childhood plans panned out..." Didn't agree with any of the answers, but I like the questions.

My Profession would be,
Actress, in an eponymous sit com. I would be zany. Or I'd be a firejumper, flying planes and rescuing people.

My spouse would be,
Mike Nesmith, of the Monkees. Later, Eric Idle. Someone very funny, with a beard, at any rate.

My car would be,
A helicopter. Or a teleporter.

My home would be,
Um, strangely, a lot like the one I have now, actually. But with a second floor and a tower. Alternately, a lighthouse or windmill house.

My best friends would be,
Geniuses, everyone. And they would live next door, and no one would ever insist on going first, including me. And they'd like games and reading.

My backyard would have,
A pool, with a slide and a fountain and a roller coaster.

All my dinners would include,
Fresh fruit, plums and peaches, cherries and berries.

My kids(pets) would be named,
I never wanted kids, but my cats and dogs would all have wonderful names from history or books, and I would understand what they said to me. Really, I never even named my stuffed animals, offering either descriptive names (bear, turtle) or repeating the same names to adults who asked. So they thought I'd named all my dolls Theresa, but I never called them that. Learning how to name well is an adult acquisition. Even then, not into labels.


Like February needed an extra day.

Timelessness

Today is rather timeless, a deep contentment has settled in. D had a thing taken off his scalp this morning, and I stopped by work to pick up S's chickens' eggs. After, we went up the canyon to Ruth's Diner for brunch. Full and warm, despite the grey-white skies. Doing very little. Wicked sore throat yesterday, vaguely achy, so I hunkered down with the red wool blanket* and let myself heal - which seems to have worked quite well. D's head aching today, not too badly.

Talking last night about the emotional effect of having everything we have gathered over the decades on display all at one go. There is rather a lot, and despite being good, it's rather potent magic for us. Conjuring up all our ghosts at once.

As mentioned, three items from Gulf War I.

The brownish scarf, under the cat, (who has hogged all the woolyness, the red wool blanket once put on me as a child when I was ill. And the sheepskin.)


The tablecloth, now serving as a curtain.


And the earrings, that I cannot imagine wearing in my ears. But they jingle pleasantly.


Years ago, Elizabeth my cousin assured me that life begins at 50. She is happy, surrounded by love and friends, how could I not just believe her? This sense of acceptance and peace has been coming over me. It is a big number, an irrelevant one. Eternal now is a tangible idea, I can palpate it in my palm, feel it pulsing in my heart. A great turning has completed, and I move forward in all directions.



*Has anyone else ever heard of red wool to heal as a folk belief? Or did I just decide that when I was small, and this blanket was mine whenever I had a bad cold?

Shawl

Moby is not usually good with being covered, but my wool shawl that I got in Saudi,* seems to be acceptable tonight. He's tired, Dave and K came with their boys, and it was a loud couple of hours. Moby happy to have the older boy pet him, retreating to the back room only after the younger got loud. Moby also sociable with D's brother and SIL earlier. He's pooped.


Sitting on a cushion, my back against the fireplace, a view of the home.





To my right, the cat.



To my left, the door, now with weather stripping (not visible, but working well.)





*One of very few mementos from that time and place. An unmatched pair of large belled earrings, a tablecloth (the white curtain on the left of the top photo), and the shawl.

Yearning

Yikes, yawning, yearning,
A year yoyoing, yapping.
Yet- yes. Always yes.


Two full days, busy and tiring. Taking Monday off, since the one thing I always want for my birthday is the day off work. Did use it to coerce friends into visiting tomorrow. Honestly, it didn't take much persuasion. Just the offer of Red Iguana's menu. Getting with D's parents and BIL&SIL, since BIL's birthday is this week as well, earlier in the day. Well, that's all fine.

Moby racing around this evening, to the point that I wonder if we actually have a pet horse. He thumps so on the wood. Still, wonderful to see him so active. He really seems delighted to just run and run and run.

Abatement

Fair's fair, show you the pretty, now the un-pretty. One of the catboxes. Moby seems quite happy to have two toilet areas. We would like the same, can't blame him. He does love to scatter it about, though. It's right next to the basement stairwell.



And this is what that pink insulation foam panel looks like. Very lightweight, I usually just drop it on my head and place it as I go downstairs. Not letting Moby down there, too much dirt of unknown composition, inadequate lights, and I'm not entirely sure there aren't any ways out for a cat. He's managed it a couple of times, and I've brought him up quite un-ceremonially. Last time I had to grab him by his tail, and clean him off after. (Some spray on cat-bath stuff we'd gotten years ago, and only used once before. He did not mind it anywhere near as much as I would have expected. But then, I think he can tell when I'm simply Not To Be Challenged.)

More ivy abatement today, another garbage bin full, at which point I had to stop. No more room to put the debris, no more oomph left to do more. Although I did go out and mop a bit of dirt off the windows on that side. Not a shiny job, but it lets more light in. One kitchen window needs to be re-caulked. The ivy is to be blamed, or the previous owners. That will be a job for another day, with a ladder and another set of hands. Going to try borax on the roots pushing up between the now-visible sidewalk and the foundation. That, and my diligence, may work in time. Eventually, the ivy will recycle the house, but not now. I'm checking the entropy.

All about paying attention, waking up. There are times to dream, wish, sleep, drift. Out minds need to idle and drift. Seductive, though, to stay there. A time to grow, a time to rot. Then it's time to attend, stretch out every feeler, really look, stay aware. Joining a local community gardening group, signed up for a seminar in March. I can use some good, basic information. Have not ever had my own garden, only working in my mother's as a kid. In Michigan. Very different circumstance. She grew rhubarb and tomatoes & cherry tomatoes, radishes. I can't remember anything else.

At the moment, I'm having some tea to sooth from the ivy dust. It's been very rainy, so the particles were minimal, but I knelt down in there. Washing everything I had on. Later, more sweeping, the music room and the catbox near the basement. Whole lotta litter all over. Moby is an industrious digger. As seen above.

Mantel

" Just gonna sit here."

"Oh, lookie there!"


"I'll go back over there."


"No, no, no, no, no, no..."


"Back behind the light... "


"Sofa, yup, this is good."




We have a mantel!? We have a mantel, this is an odd realization. Moby just enjoys it.

Underneath

Moby so determined to sit on my lap, he climbed over the top of the laptop to be there. When he does decide to sit on a lap, he's not fucking around. Oh, his name, as mentioned in another discussion over at Pete's place. That came up by free associating for a week. When we were in Saudi, D joked that if asked about his middle name, Israel, he would claim the I stood for Ishmael. He also actually read the whole of Moby Dick once, which I found impressive. Cat at that point was still mostly hiding under, under the sofa, under the bathroom cabinet, under the bed, so a presence underneath named Moby felt just right.



D has been cold in this house, and we are trying to not spend a fortune on heating. It's a constant struggle of light through old windows that leak heat, heavy brown shades that insulate and black out, more space than we are accustomed to, forced air, and that he has done so much of the nuts and bolts of the paperless work, mostly online, sitting. He's been very cold, which makes anyone a bit unhappy. We had an electric/oil heater, but had been only using it in the bedroom. The music room has two doorways, only one with a door. On Saturday, we talked this out, and solved it. The heater lives in the music room, and I put this cloth up over the doorway, and D has a cozy haven to be warm in, while we keep the thermostat very low.

Does look very hippie, don't it?



The other doorway opens from the kitchen into the freshly de-dusted dining room. And the only extant lighting fixture we genuinely like as is. The shadows from these lights fascinate Moby, he often attacks them.

Whole

Much dusting and cleaning. A little light shoveling.

Woke this morning thinking of the A Good Idea at the Time. And felt this strange insight into the nature of what we label evil. It is part of the design, because anything in a positive feedback loop destroys itself utterly and does not survive. No species, no system. We need checks and balances. The big difficulty with obsessive/compulsive disorders and addictions, among other problems, is that the inhibitory parts of the brain don't work as well as they should. Pure altruism does not live long. Cancers are unchecked growth, nothing breaking them down. Not one good, one bad, but creation and destruction working together. Real good is when they function and change, real evil is when one or the other gets too powerful. When god and the devil are dancing, or trying to destroy each other.

Lay down our label-maker, and appreciate the whole cloth.

Reflexions

The Mirror in the bathroom showed smears when fogged. I cleaned it repeatedly, even with goo-gone and detergent and vinegar. To no avail. Only when D mentioned a glass polishing abrasive did I remember that I planned on using toothpaste for exactly that - and promptly and thoroughly forgot. This worked beautifully.

All photos in mirrors are cheesy, so be it. It is a very nice mirror, give them that credit. I do hope I never meet them, though.

I've come to forgive the previous owners for their many lapses. Getting a house in good order is a process, and they didn't get to everything. The fridge, for all that it's too large and can't open the right way and required chiseling away at the woodwork so the freezer would open, is a very nice fridge. The stove is well designed, D likes working on it, and it's easy to clean. They got the kitchen and bathroom in very good condition. We were able to fix the leaking shower head fairly easily. The electrical is all in good shape, apparently done by a qualified professional. Plumbing is an issue, as is the chimney, and any kind of insulation, locks on doors - not priorities for them, apparently. They did love their Ikea crap, though. Getting rid of that detritus has been a job in itself. One that is not finished yet.

One damn thing after another.

Xerox

Excess exhaustion,
Examining, exactly.
Express to the X.

So tired today. Another tomorrow. Down to X, although long moved in. Everything wrong footed, but precisely right. Strange movements around. X mostly with an E in front, otherwise it gets altogether too silly even for me.

Bunk

Doing a bunk. Genuinely at odds with my gut and other organs, but mostly I suspect the stress just decided to kernel panic and data dump. Dreaming about drips and floods in the house. Walking along the hallway, my feet and ankles warm and heavy in a layer of warmth that turned into water pouring over the wood. A kitchen tap draining unstoppably. Walking around a city in a downpour, Chicago for some reason, found something valuable, gloves perhaps, near a car. Was going to keep them, but I felt others watching, and I put them into the car. Woke, or not quite, to a flood of my own. Cleaned up and snarled at D and struggled back to bed and an uneasy sleep.

Got up when the alarm chimed. Hugged D and apologized, he encouraged me to call in sick. Apparently I look as bad as I feel. No big chores today. Hanging with the cat, drinking tea, reading about the New Madrid earthquake and the history in that time and place. Cat has claimed my robe, so I'm using D's big blue one.

Above my head, our art project of the weekend, more of our postcards, collected over the years.

Ivy

The back garden. Just the right size, I do hope there is sufficient sun.

Put reflector sticks by the shared driveway, and the shared dead ended drive on the other side, so that I don't run off the curb, or hog the space.


Off toward the intersection. It's a fairly quiet street most of the time, but very busy at others, with busses by both ways several times an hour. This actually pleases me, being a city kid.



Snowing and raining together, a damp and dreary day. I took in in my head that this meant the ivy dust would be down, and went on a killing spree. Got a whole dumpster of the ivy out, and there is still a lot there. A matter of time.

Ghosting

I read Cracked. Mostly, I really enjoy it. But I have to be choosy. Because some of the guys on there are not ironically anti-feminist, but clueless, marginal-misogynists. Not hating the female, but not giving the non-male POV so much as a byyourleave. Not hateful, merely neglectful.

I refer specifically to a recent one about obvious stereotypes, one being that women are the ones who believe in ghosts. As a stereotype, I have to admit, in our modern western culture, it's probably predominantly right. But the writer never considers what I see as a pretty obvious reason. Women are at home more. They are taught to be fearful and aware, to protect themselves from violent crime on the streets. In their own homes the fear doesn't evaporate, but takes on odd forms. I remember being young, in my own place, and occasionally getting myself badly spooked. I knew better, but alone at night, those ordinary if inexplicable noises take on a sinister air.

And for women with a spouse and child, a husband out of town would be an occasion for anxiety. A quiet house, children to defend, seeing ghosts isn't rational, but it is understandable.

Amazing to me is how, here, I can walk about with few or no lights anywhere, and I can find my way so well. It really has only been a month. Still, I think of how, when I was a child, or a young woman on my own, and the darkness and shadows, the creaks and sighs of this house, would have had me wanting to hide under the covers, or turn on every light and put on loud music. I remember that urge, which no longer applies. The memory intact, the emotion long ago evaporated. I feel like saying "huh. well, it used to be there... " All gone, but knowing it once mattered.

This place is haunted, but only in the way of anything that has survived so long, intact. Stories, for those who will listen, vaguely whispering, writing on the floor, in the damage, under the paint.

Tarts

Listening to I've Never Seen Star Wars, while the victim, or guest, who tries pop-tarts for the first time - actually likes them. I think I had them a time or two at Aunt Alma's, it's the kind of thing she would have done for me. Mostly I know I got to eat them while doing market surveys at the downtown mall when I first came to this city. We interviewed a lot of little kids, which is a bit like hitting one's head against a brick wall, but more painful. We were required always to ask "anything else" and write down the answer, until they said "no." This is the one time no kid will say "no." They will just make stuff up, or repeat themselves, endlessly. Most of us would just stop asking, and write down "no." Hell, this was about fuckingpoptarts, dammit.

To do the interview, we would heat and present cut up bits of poptart, in varying flavors, leaving halves left over, that we all would nibble on. Minimum wage folks, students, marginal all in our own ways, it was food, more or less. Most of us still got rather sick of it very quickly. One guy did not. We wound up having to get more supplies for the 'study' because he would snarf it down, even stealing whole packages. Later, D would talk about a guy he gamed with, who another friend called a "food vacuum" because no snacks were safe in his presence, and no one else would get any. Probably not the same guy.

I can't imagine eating them today. Or pot noodles, as the INSSW show made Sandi Toksvig try. Not sure if the pot noodles are analogous to Ramen noodles, but I assume so.

Made lunch for D's parents, enchiladas, salsa refried rice, salad. Thrown together, no recipe as such, but they turned out well, and D's dad effusive in his praise of my cooking. Nice talk, more comfortable over the years. We had a little plumbing moment this morning, and I got an unexpected, clothed, cold shower down my arm. We sorted that, more or less. Got the second ceiling fan down and replaced - in the music room. Got a foam board to put up more of our postcards, which I found looking for other paperwork. We spent part of this evening doing arts & crafts. A collage. No adhesion yet, but laid out for morning.

Smoothed

This morning I ironed the cotton hats for work that are comfortable, but wrinkle into a wad after being washed. Nothing to it, but I resist pulling out the iron for that, and let them sit a while. I also ironed the table cloth I brought back from Saudi - from Pakistan if I remember correctly. Hung as a curtain, at least for now. And as I smoothed the fabric, I talked with the mum in my head, as she praised me for keeping my skill.





"Skill? Some skill. Putting in an IV, or a catheter, that's a skill. Assembling a cysto scope, that's a skill. Scrubbing a liver transplant, that's a skill."

But I kept thinking, well, that attention to detail, completing a job, that is where I first learned this. No, I don't iron clothes anymore, save a few hats and perhaps once a year for something special, or D's shirts in the summer when he has to be a bit more nicely dressed at work. Intermittent, let us amend.

Not a skill, exactly, but an attitude. Done when I was a kid for an unlikable father, most often. At work, for cranky and ungrateful surgeons - which takes nothing away from my own satisfaction - should I chose to be so satisfied.



Moby takes satisfaction napping on my ankles.

Leotards

Dancing after cleaning, to Gogol Bordello. Remembered when I was small and taking free (or at least very cheap) ballet classes at Patton Park. The teacher dyed light, horrible green leotards to a reasonable black for the girls. There was an actual piano player, an elderly black man who kept time and a tune for seven year old girls practicing plies in an unheated, but much mirrored, dance studio. I was sent because my feet turned in, a birth related deformity. Of course, all ballet did for my feet was cause me to pronate instead, but such is life. I liked the discipline, the work, the space to move in. I would all my life bruise myself on smaller spaces, having learned to dance in a large open one. A physical courage learned.

Once, I was awarded, "Most likely to succeed in ballet." My brothers decided this was actually said "belly" which turned out to have more truth in it. I accepted this without thought as a child, but to think that back then, my movements were so pleasing. No dancer, not really, but a dancer for myself certainly. I don't move to the music, it moves me. A natural, if not an exceptional one. I still dance, more recently, with a good floor, and playing my music. Have not gotten out the scarves, and the coin belt has lost it's chain - making it too short for my hips. But I will, it has begun.

I would not be younger, even in body. Even my pain is part of who I am. To live without it, without even the memory of it in my scars would steal the lessons learned, the precious experience, the understanding writ on my tendons, scored into my nerves. I cannot separate my body from my mind from my soul, they are all of a piece. I would not be younger in any part, without deranging the whole weave, weft, embroidery. Patches and pulls are as much a part of me as what I know from having survived them.

And so, as the fifth decade rushes toward me with arms outstretched, I stand awaiting the embrace with a wry smile, and a profound satisfaction. Yes, this is the beginning of a very good and interesting story, much to be written, much to be told. A few weeks, a good excuse to get people here. I am so content.


Home, and Loved.

Crack

The advantage of sitting around at work for two hours with nothing at all to do, on a one room, short, day, is that people want to share neat stuff. This is the most awesome and frightening video.



Last patient added on, because, having been scheduled earlier in the week, but showed up drunk, case was cancelled. Individual drunk today as well. Still drunk, possibly. Took over 90 minutes to get the blood to the lab and the lab to run ethanol levels, while we sat on our hands. Anesthesiologist very against doing the case, for safety and legal reasons. Surgeon is digging heels in and insisting. How can a person obviously inebriated give legal consent? Well, it can't happen, although in an emergency it can be waived. Not at all at a specialty hospital for what is termed an elective procedure. If it can wait five days, it's not urgent nor emergent, by our definition. When we got results, three times the legal limit, 0.24, meant, no we can't do this. Oh, and patient denies having any alcohol today, and only a "couple of beers" yesterday.

Plus, if this person is this dependent, then it gets dangerous for them to NOT drink. DTs are not just a risk for staff, patients can go into seizures and die. It's safer to go cold turkey off heroin. Alcohol withdrawal can kill. And who would be held liable? Not primarily the pushy hand surgeon, but the anesthesiologist and the nurses who accepted the consent and sedated or anesthetized the patient without adequate back-up. Especially when our trauma center is just up the street, and regularly handles this kind of complicated situation. We have to treat the whole patient, not just the injury, and the alcohol dependence is a huge part of this situation. This person needed to be handled at a higher level.

Listening

Out and about this morning, redeeming the Home Despot gift card, and getting thank-you cards. It's rare that I have given thank-you cards, the expectation in my experience is that an in-person thanks was sufficient, and a card was only for something sent - and a phone call was actually even better. But within the female environment of my work, I know the norm is more formal, and I really am grateful, so I will gladly thank them in the way they will best understand and appreciate. I feel very old-novel, Lady of the Manor sitting down to write my correspondence in the morning room.


All the modern conveniences. The fridge may be too large - IS too large, but it's a good one. As is the stove. Baking potatoes at the moment. I have very mixed feelings about the previous owners, some choices were amazingly good, others a bit odd and impractical. Not like I will ever have to socialize with them. Although, we hear they still live somewhere close-by.



Got a few dull necessaries, calking and wood glue, but also a good anti-stress mat for the kitchen tile (D's feet get very cold, even with his good slippers) & grippy stair treads for the basement - a light color that will be dirty soon, but very visible so that's alright then.



Yesterday, we stayed away from the practical, D played guitar, I arranged postcards. We rather needed a day like that. And I knew I had today off. Conferences this weekend, Friday we are closed. Slow week all around. But I can use my vacation time, and simply enjoy the day as such.



Called my mum this morning. Actually a fairly enjoyable conversation. She says her persistent cough is gone since being in Texas. Worried about one granddaughter, my niece, who has become a hoarder, and refuses to get a job. I listen, and hold my peace.


He has his back turned away, but his ears are turned toward me. He's listening.

Shock

Read the news today. No, not shocked, but a bit in shock. A similar sort of story when I was a kid, the father in that one killed his children because they were being taken from him, and his excuse - "If I can't have them, no one will." Bad enough, but my father completely sympathized, agreed. Already afraid of him, this shook me to the core. I never felt safe in that house again. This story, took me right there. Maybe he would not have done me actual violence, but he was never hard pressed. I would not have trusted him if too much crossed. Home was a dangerous place, where I had to be more on guard than anywhere else. What kind of human being would say such a thing to a child? Nonetheless a father? Well, my father, evidently.

Once D and I found each other, I have always felt safe at home, for the first time and ever after. I do not take Home for granted, ever. Reading this left me cold and shaking. And wanting there to be a hell, for those who hurt the vulnerable in their care, a millstone about their necks. I don't believe there is, merely the obliteration and recycling. The evil live in a hell every breath, no need for more.

And, much as I feel for the rest of the family, perhaps those boys would have felt as I did, better not to live than to have lived through that childhood. Really, only in the last decade, as love saturated my life, did the early years seem worth surviving. But for a very long time, had I been given a choice, I'd have chosen not to have ever been born. The balance shifted, eventually, for which I am immensely grateful, but damn it took a long time. On a road that once seemed endless, I never expected ease and comfort, ever. Took me a very long time to trust it entirely, even as I trusted D completely. Maybe those two boys were too badly scarred already, maybe not. Either way, there is no mitigation for a father to blow up his children, even if it does save them a life of suffering. Independent variables.

Came across Aunt Evelyn's funeral card today, held it and wept a little. She would love this house. She would approve of the woman I have become. I know this. I carry her with me, she occasionally looks out my mirror at me. She would be proud of me for surviving and thriving, as she did.

This process, opening up our things and letting them stretch out, our history filling the ample space, is also haunting. All the stories want telling, want to be remembered. The bad and the good and the funny all together.

So, I put up our postcards and assorted art and ephemera that has held on, as fragile looking things often do. Delicate flowers on lichen in the arctic blasts, incongruously sturdy. Bits of paper, christmas ornaments, scraps of cloth, stones and shells from beaches, insignia, earrings, all endure in the cracks and live to tell the tale. And I remember, with a few tears, smiles, laughter.

Perhaps there is reincarnation, especially for the abused young. Automatic replay, but with decent parents, safety and responsible kindness. I'd like to believe that. It would seem just. Justice is a human concept though, in defiance of the reality of the universe.

Basement

Honorary hedgehog, with door coring - from the locksmith and our front door, and flag.

A. brought this vine topiary. I hope it survives. Moby very interested in it, nibbled a bit, after we figured out it was probably safe. Hid it overnight, and he seems perfectly fine, so I brought it out this morning. If he shreds it, I'll use the pot for bamboo - which I know is fine for cats. I will use Monday to prepare proper thank-you notes for the three who brought gifts.


While getting ready for guests, and during, and after, we managed to wash nearly every bit of clothing. D, mostly. Everything came out very well. And we didn't even need a pile of quarters. I don't like to think how big the pile of quarters would have to be to cover the cost of owning them, but I love not having to spend hours of every week at a laundromat, again.

It's a basement. No one yesterday interested in the extended tour here. But I hadn't gotten the foam blocks down yet. With the sun shining in this morning, it seemed far less grim and grimy. Our friend Dave, when he stopped by last week, could probably have just done the basement tour quite happily. His dear wife K is the one who thought of the play area mat, they have it in their basement. She is, of course, a genius, and not just for this.

The X is where the drain is, and can you see two appropriate words spelled out?



Brought the cheap card table down to sort on. Very pleased with the machines. A whole lotta tissues sneaked through in pockets, and they all came out intact, instead of shredding and sticking. I'm inclined to think this means our clothes will be treated more gently than with Laundromat machines. Given that we will probably use these the rest of our lives, I think getting good ones will be worth it over time. Keep thinking of the Cracked article about stupid habits learned growing up poor. I was never quite that poor, or didn't feel so, but I have some of those tendencies that I have to argue myself out of. D and I were on an overnight trip for a friend's wedding, and I hadn't packed a clean t-shirt. We found a gift shop, and I began looking at only the cheapest ones. D asked me why, get a good one, it'll last, instead of throwing it away. I actually still have that Zion's Park shirt, although it is a bit worn now.




The last bit of the puddle from the drip is drying well. Some advantages to living in a dry place.

Ground

Lovely cake to share. Chocolate, but so moist people thought it Red Velvet - which is much too sweet for me, but this was not over sugary. Good cake, and I'm not a big cake fan, from a very old, local bakery.

Yesterday morning we heard a strange sound, but we had to go to work, and pretty much forgot. Later, well we were busy, there were other sounds, we put on a video. Once everything was off, at nearly 1100 PM, we noticed it again, explored, down the basement... water dripping on plastic drape.* Closed the shut-off valve, which seemed to about do it, and emailed the plumber. He called back almost immediately, asked if we needed him right then. We said no, it seemed to be fine for the moment, and we were just going to bed, so he promised† us to be there in the morning at 0930. The washer and dryer were delivered at 0830 - at one point we were concerned that one of the young men, the one down the stairs first, was in a bit of trouble - wanting to rest a minute - but he was fine, and they got it all sorted. Plumber called about the same time to tell us he'd be a bit late, by about 15 minutes (!), which was actually about 17 (!). He got it all sorted, no charge. The valve apparently just failed. Well, shit happens.

Thing is, I had planned‡ our little open house for all the folks at work that had to listen to me natter on about it so long. Seven showed up, with two daughters, thankfully only three with gifts. I tried to make it very clear that this was not a Housewarming (implying presents) but a slightly belated Groundhog Day celebration. And one does not bring anything to a Groundhog Day party but ones shadow. They appeared mostly one or two at a time, which is a kind of ideal for introvert hosts. Lovely to be able to focus on each, chat, make tea, serve cake, tell stories. I sipped good beer, perfect drug for social anxiety. Nice folks all. House the Home glad of all the praise and acceptance.

Moby mostly crashed in the Fortress of Solitude, but accepted petting up there. J in particular happy to have some cat-time. Cat also glad of praise and admiration. Earlier, he objected to being put in the bedroom during the delivery and plumbing excitement. Spent some time on the printer, just because he could.


*I'd snagged one from work, clean, but no longer sterile, so it would be thrown away, or go to the lab for reuse. Planned to put it under the mats in the basement. As it was, it contained the water somewhat, and amplified the sound. Very useful.

†He was supervising his daughter's sleepover, so it would have been a huge problem for him to leave. If we'd told him it was an emergency, I'm sure he'd've made that happen. He did not mention this complication until after we'd assured him that morning would do just fine. I'd much rather be out of water overnight than have to supervise a bunch of girls, so we got the better end of the deal.

‡Well, more than three weeks, and it's just not that impressive to have everything unboxed and in good enough order to let people see. My little, silent, rebuttal to the many who say they still have boxes in their house from when they moved in years before, implying I would be the same. I knew myself better, even if I did not know all the implications of home ownership.

Warmth

Whenever we wear,
Whistling with winter winds,
Warm woolen wishes.


Icy winds this morning, all the day. Another problem attempted, failed, a walk through the cold, fixed. Women from work stopped by as we all finished at the same time. Moby, as usual, unexpectedly social, came out to greet, even headflopped to be stroked. Followed us from room to room, showing them his house. Good to have people here, room to have them in our home. Our stories out in our things. Tomorrow, our little open house, with cake.

D wants posters up in the Music Room, we discussed - as we do. He thought about Kirby art, I suggested Usagi Yojimbo, we talked about movie posters - but which movie? Then art, something we genuinely like, avoiding pretension. He though about John Singer Sargent, a feature of our sojourn in Boston - the Gardener Museum in particular, when I was inspired by El Jaleo - one of his favorites there. Finding it in poster/print form is not as easy as hoped, but we have a few leads.

Next week, very slow at work. Time to clean and sort, fix and, oh I so hope, to write. To write about more than repairs and projects.

Voices

Vanishing virgins,
Violet in vanilla,
Veiled, verdant Venus.





Chiseled out wood of the lower part of the jamb, that kept the lower/freezer drawer from opening, or closing properly. Fridge is too big for the space. Nice fridge, not it's fault they bought the wrong size. I apologized to House the Home as I chopped away. The raw wood smells of oak. But the freezer opens well, now. I'll put a seal on the bare wood soon. Cleaned the plumber's rubble in the basement, kicked up a cloud of dust, for which my sinuses and lungs are not appreciative. D instrumental in putting up the curtain rod in the dining room, a few of my scarves are up there now. General odds and ends day, with the usual necessary cleaning and cooking. D dealing with phone, voip has issues here. Much frustration - and the joys of a local ISP, they just replaced the unit, and we just went and picked it up, no waiting for the U.S. Postal Service.

I'm really enjoying all the challenges, a sort of huge puzzle to be solved bit by bit. No slacking off. Something to DO every day. And figuring out how to do it.

Moby a velcro cat this morning. If I went into a room, there he was, exploring every closet I opened, purring and curious. Didn't want to do the basement, because he'd have been right at my heels. Waited until D was home, and Moby's settled in for a long nap.