Comfort and Limitations

It’s dark when the alarm goes off and my husband hits the snooze button to squeeze a few more precious minutes of sleep from his restless night.  I lay there not quite wanting to open my eyes and tentatively move my sore limbs, regretting my decision to tear down a fence in the back only a little, thinking, not bad for an old chick, as I become familiar with each ache.

The sound of the shower motivates me to swing my feet to the chilly floor and shuffle downstairs to turn on the kettle for tea.  One English Breakfast tea bag goes into the stainless travel mug for my husband and I fill the coffee pot to the six line for myself, dumping two mounded scoops of coffee into the basket before remembering to actually turn it on.

The cat is looking at me from her perch on the arm chair and I’m wondering why she isn’t yeowling at me like she normally does at this point in my morning routine, hurrying me along so that she can have a fresh bowl of food.  I glance at the dog’s dish to make sure my son has fed her before heading down to tend to the cat, proceding with caution on the stairs because I know she’ll come barreling down them right as I’m ready to take another step and I don’t want to be a feature story on the 5PM news.  But she doesn’t today, and I look back to see her staring at me, seemingly as uninspired in this routine as I am.  I tap the spoon on the rim of the cat food can and peer around the corner to see her headed down the stairs.  She stretches each hind leg, then looks up at me and yeowls, as if to say, it’s about time.

I glance at the cat box on the way out, surprised that it’s actually clean.  Not too long ago, frustrated with my son’s admirably persistent passive aggressive resistance in keeping the patio free of the doggo’s droppings, I switched responsibilities with him trading the cat box for the patio.  With two rapidly aging pets, it’s anyone’s guess as to which job is more thankless than the other, but I figured it was worth a try.

My son’s nearly 17 and I can see signs of maturity.  Fleeting signs.  Like when the doggo is making a beeline toward the patio door, grim determination on her normally soft face, and then right before she passes over the threshold, lets a few drop, not quite making it yet again.  Before I can throw my arms in the air and moan about how ridiculous it is that the dog can’t seem to know when she has to go, my son has a bag in his hand, shooshing me and saying he’ll pick it up.  It seems there are some perks about having an almost 17-year-old in residence.

At some point in my early morning meanderings, I happen upon one of the books I leave around the house languishing in a semi-read state.  I do this purposefully trusting that if they’re out of sight, they’ll also be out of mind, because much competes for my attention these days, most of which exists beyond the covers of a book.  It works, and while I’m waiting for photos to upload, or my Mac to reboot, I pick one up to read a few paragraphs:

He knew that every adolescent boy is a loser and an outcast in some area:  socially or emotionally, scholastically or athletically.

William Zinsser refers to an admired headmaster of a school he attended who made a place for all, enabling his students “to be comfortable with [their] limitations and confident in [their] strengths.”  I don’t know that I disagree with him, even though seeing the statement printed on the page seems harsh, and I can hear imagined voices crying out against it, thinking it not true.  But it is.  It’s as true for girls as it is boys.  I remember.

My son has developed a quiet grace that is pleasant to be around now that the Geometry teacher battles are a couple of years behind us.  The Algebra II and Spanish skirmishes last year weren’t great, but having a teacher who was human did help restore his attitude about the difference a teacher can make even when one doesn’t love a particular subject.  Too bad a kid isn’t graded on that since it’s what much of life can be based on — one’s ability to turn the other cheek.  To deal with one’s limitations by moving on. To face that you don’t want to do something but have to no matter how much sense it doesn’t make.

The other day, he forwarded an oddly worded email sent by a person asking for his talents.  When I first saw it, I thought of all the spam that flows in and out of the web every day but forced myself to consider what it was requesting.  Evidently, the young man is a writer and graphic novel creator looking for an artist to illustrate portions of his publications.  The artist currently a part of his team creates excellent characters with human likenesses, but not so much fierce, metallic, piston-firing mechs.  She saw my son’s drawings on a site he’s been uploading work to for about a year now.

And so the drawing begins for his first paid job which, according to the writer, translates to free copies of the finished book to distribute as he chooses and a share of any profits received in sales.  That could entail shopping the book around to local comic stores, and as much as I can say that my son is definitely talented, hawking his wares isn’t something I see him doing.

I’m thinking payment comes in the form of accepting a new responsibility and chalking it up to experience, but we’ll see.  Far be it from me to squash anything impractical even though it’s genetically ingrained in me.

Just a minor shortcoming.  I’m still working on it.

The Things We Keep

Yesterday I tackled the garage, and although I’m far from being done, I’m satisfied with the progress I’ve made.  It’s  a jumble of items you’d expect to find in a garage: a fairly recent deposit of my kitchen overflow;  remnants of our recent construction;  boxes expelled of Christmas decorations waiting for their return;  and my son’s truly unbelievable collection of crap.

Not exactly a glamorous way to spend the first day after the holidays home alone, but pleasant.  I popped the garage door open to let in the light and brisk air realizing that if I had an attic or basement, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy either of those or my less than friendly neighbors as they passed by on their morning walk, furtively avoiding my gaze and the greeting perched on my tongue, just waiting for an opportunity to be human.   Ever the optimist am I.

I think the reason I avoid organizing our garage or anything else in my house that collects pieces of our lives over time, is that I’m forced to think about the memories attached to every item I handle.  It isn’t that I regret those memories — it’s more about having to accept the time it adds to the task, and the mood I’ll need to wallow in when I’m finished.

My thoughts wandered from annoyance with my son for keeping what resembles a rat’s nest wherever he goes, to flippant defiance:  What if I printed our address in craigslist in the “free” section and just left the garage door open to  the inevitable riot?  Instead, what I’m left with this morning are what lies between, like thoughts about boys growing up who were never interested in playing sports, but did to indulge us. 

Thoughts about school and career, and where all that knowledge and understanding goes when one is done with it.  Of an old house and all its poignant memories.   Of grandmothers and Martha, old friends I should call or write, and school kids I will never, ever forget.

Beauty lost to function and sentimentality to practicality on many counts during my purge. Copper pieces that have gleamed in the morning sun and cast sparks of light on my dining room wall for years are in the discard pile.  Decorations for Valentines Day and Easter that used to liven up the house when the boys were little also ended up in the pile along with a huge bag of stuffed animals I haven’t opened in years.  If I see them, I’ll have to think about who owned which and at what point in life.  It’s sort of leaning against the discard pile, not quite a part of it, and not quite separate.  Is there a child’s stuffed animal heaven somewhere I haven’t heard of?

But there are things I’ve not quite decided to let go of, and If they’re any indication of who I am or what I’ve been, then I’m as odd as I’ve always thought I’ve been.  As odd as the stack of Martha Stewart Living magazines that seem to be about much more than the paper they’re printed on.  What does one do with that many magazines sitting, collecting spiders and bugs with too many legs to count?  Do I get one out each week, leaf through it, cut out what strikes my fancy and toss it to get on with the next?  There’s something about a sharp pair of scissors cutting along a perfectly straight line and thinking through one’s life.

Ferd, a giant bunny, sits in a corner on a stack of coolers.  It’s not a very dignified place for something that reminds me of how simple love can be if we allow it, and how easily life can be taken for granted, or lost if we’re not careful.

And these bottles?  I dug them up in the washed out area of an old dump near one of the last places my grandmother lived.  It was in the middle of nowhere — one of those places people used to go and then forgot about after the freeway was built.  The bottles aren’t valuable, but I like their varying shapes and embossed surfaces, each a slightly different tint than the next.  She was like that.

Or a bag I packed the day I left my job, nearly two years ago.  It’s moved from one side of the garage to the other, but I haven’t unpacked it yet.  But I might blow the dust off the silver bar that used to sit on my desk to remind me that others see us quite differently than we see ourselves.

I’ve done quite a bit of thinking since finishing my work yesterday, and realize that as much as I got some exercise and fresh air, I’ve only moved everything from one side of the garage to the other.  It’s more organized than it was, but it’s all still sitting there.

It’s only been sifted.

The sun did come up today.

I need the sky to be grey and angry looking. I want the wind to blow and rain to fall. But it’s blue as far as I can see.

I don’t want to hear the kids at the end of the block playing in the cul-de-sac. But they’re laughing and screaming at one another, having fun.

I want the trees to be bare like they’re supposed to be in the winter, and not green with signs of spring already.

I’m not in the right frame of mind for blooming and regrowth. Sprouting and budding.

I thought it might be good to bury my head in the pillows until about noon, but knew that was never going to happen. And once I’m awake, the last thing I want to do is lay there and think. Not today. Especially today.

I headed for the bathroom acknowledging my numb around the edges self, knowing that I wouldn’t see Blackitty, and wondering whether my ugly, red, puffy eyes could actually squeeze out more tears. They felt like they wanted to. And right when I could feel the wave of grief begin to wash over me, the door nudged forward and my dog’s big golden head and soft brown eyes pushed into the space, tentatively, seeking permission. Her cold wet nose bumped against my knee and I could hear the thump of her tail against the vanity as I scratched her head to say thank you for continuing Blackitty’s routine.

So amazing.

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My Heart is Broken…

I have been fortunate to have known many lovely cats in my life. If I proceed slowly backwards, with each name I recall, I can glimpse a bit of the life I was leading when I had each one, and smile remembering what knowing them brought to me.

Blackitty (Mr. Blaxter Blackington) & Precious (The Yack Star)…Dear, dear Holis and his friend, Miss Mew…Rocky Lou…Yeller, Jasper. Tar Baby. Spark Good Buddy. Sissy Kitty. Tuffy. Big Kitty. Boomer…and so many others.

A few of them have been very special. They had the quiet ability to soothe when the need was there. To calm. To provide warmth and a bit of softness exactly when it was needed. Somehow they just understood that their responsibility was to share themselves unselfishly. I can think of almost nothing else that is as simple, and yet so valuable.

I lost the dearest one today. Blackitty. The loveliest cat I’ve ever had.

I knew something was wrong, but I just couldn’t bring myself to deal with it. I didn’t want to imagine how it might be to not see him each morning in the bathroom after I’d dragged myself out of bed. He’d push open the door, slink through it, rub against my legs, and then stretch his velvety body with one paw pushed against the wall.

He didn’t do that today.

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If I wish it…

I love December. I’m sure you’re thinking it’s made easier because I’ve never had to deal with snow and sludge, freezing temperatures and pipes that burst. Those things are rarely experienced in places like San Diego, Key West and the south of Spain. But living as I have in the warmer climes my entire life has only my heart grow fonder.

And speaking of hearts, mine is wired for anything that can be even remotely construed as hopelessly romantic — Jane Austin, The Goodbye Girl, Sleepless in Seattle, Harry Nilhsson’s “Without You”, Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese…Dorothy and Toto…I can’t help it.
Oddly, all my loveliest swoonable memories can be traced back to December. The MoH and I became inextricably involved in December of 1987. For me, it was almost as painful as an unrequited crush in junior high. Thankfully, my life with the MoH has had a lovely outcome — one that has endured 20 years.

I get sappy when I hear certain songs and have warm memories of going to movies, or sitting on the same side of the table in tacky restaurants sipping margaritas and holding hands. Doing crossword puzzles, taking long walks, and window shopping in malls filled our spare time because they were free and neither of us had any money.

We also wrote love letters to one another.

I still have them, and get a bit squirmy thinking of the pages that are raw with emotion. It’s a wonder they’ve survived me, always on the verge of ridding myself of anything that could be classified as embarassing to myself. But I tuck them away each time I happen across them, glad that they mark a time that mattered so much. Some day, they’ll belong to the RT so he can be mortified that his parents felt the way they do about one another.

When I first knew the MoH, I remember my understandably horrified mother questioning the extent to which I might be in love with “that boy” one night while I was ironing in her house where I was living with my two older boys, not quite 5 and 6. The MoH is nearly seven years younger than I, but no, I wouldn’t have classified him as a boy.

And I did fancy myself in love with him.

Still. We can’t help ourselves.

It has made all the difference.

It’s called perspective. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Tiffany’s and Dust Motes

It rained in Paradise yesterday. Now don’t all fall over at the same time with that news, stupendous as it is. Not only did it rain — it poured much of the day: a record-setting .73”. I can’t remember how long it’s been since it rained enough to do more than dampen the top layer of soil in my flower bed. But yesterday water filled the gutters and at many points during the gloriously soggy day, moved in sheets across the road as the wind whipped the palm trees into a frenzy, fronds no longer sheltering the birds that normally perch there.

The MoH called from work to ask what I was doing. He wondered whether I had popped open the garage door, settled in a chair and bundled in layers to watch the show. He knows I love this weather. What he struggles with is being practical — as in, too practical. Overly, cautiously so. I have thin streaks of practicality, and depending on the situation, will listen to my inner nagging voice that chastises me I really shouldn’t or better not.

Or, sometimes not listen.

Last night, he and I ventured out in the weather. We thought we’d have a quick dinner and begin our leisurely search for gift ideas for Christmas. I’ve learned that it doesn’t really do any good to try and get this done earlier in the year, because he likes waiting. He enjoys thinking about it, talking about it, and then going to purchase after he’s found the perfect gift for each person on his list. I like that about him, because although the routine does lend itself to quench his selective need for systemic order, it’s also a little messy around the edges because he waits so long.

But this year, we are celebrating our 20th wedding anniversary. I know. It’s a doozie. We were married the day after Christmas, so have always sort of collapsed our acknowledgment of one another into a dinner out in January, or a quick weekend trip before tax season exerts its ugly coils around our free time.

But this is a mile stone. How many people today can not only say that they’ve been married that long, but actually like one another. Look forward to doing things together. Love one another. Act sappy about it.

So over dinner last night, the MoH begins with, “I didn’t want to talk about his last night, so I waited to bring it up until tonight since I knew we’d be out and about.” And I knew what he was going to bring up, because I always know. “I was going to buy you something very expensive for your anniversary,” he continued, and then proceeded to wonder whether I’d prefer something for the house instead, or perhaps a trip somewhere. I could tell he was struggling with the topic and was thinking aloud more than talking with me. The MoH doesn’t like to spend a lot of money. Ever. And although I don’t have that particular problem, I do have that practical voice in me that has been in full scream for the better part of a year now because I cast my former income to the wind to sow the seeds of possibility for our future life. Sounds good, doesn’t it? But still. It has been quite the generous gift to myself and I wallow in it daily, knowing how fortunate I am to have this time.

As I listened to him, I had to be careful. I had to make sure he couldn’t see that ridiculous, tiny piece of the stereotypical girl left inside me after all these years that, no matter how much she doesn’t want or like or have to admit it — wishes for a fairy tale.

I know.

And you thought I was Matilda the Hun.

I did too. And I am, most of the time. But I guess not this close to a 20th wedding anniversary.

And the funny thing is, it’s not the “expensive” aspect of the whole thing that I’m interested in. Truly. Unfortunately, lovely things can cost quite a bit of money. They don’t have to, though. Not if one thinks about it for a time, savoring the possibilities.

Right now, I’m not comfortable with the whole “costs a lot of money” part of this. The sprinklers in the flower bed don’t work. The lights on the patio don’t work. My car needs a tune up badly, the carpets need to be torn out and replaced with wood flooring so the MoH can breathe in this house. It needs a fresh coat of paint…there’s annual physicals to pay for, and the RT’s college tuition is just around the corner.

I don’t want to discuss what I want him to give me for our 20th wedding anniversary. “I know you wouldn’t turn down a nice ring if you got one,” he concludes after other possibilities have been pondered. No, I probably wouldn’t, but I’d been attempting to explain to him that the idea of a diamond to signify our time together didn’t quite fit anymore. I use my hands so much and don’t get out amongst the masses. And was the purpose of wearing such a gift to show others? No, that just seemed all wrong. It would be shiny, and throw fiery shards of light against my face, distracting me from mundane tasks, but dust motes wafting in a stuffy room already do that and cost far less.

If the MoH happened to surprise me by capturing one of those motes, enclosing it in a crystal box and then tell me he knew how much I love the idea of a moment suspended in time, I’d sigh knowing he’d thought about that perfect gift, just for me.

See? Fairy tales. Actually, it’s the idea of a fairy tale.

Better than a sharp stick in the eye, as my mother would say. Yes, most things are, Mom.

And it’s especially better than having to ride in a smelly pumpkin to have a guy you’ve never met try and fit a glass shoe on your foot.

I’d have to wear a party dress to do that, and you know how I feel about those.

Still, Breakfast at Tiffany’s would be quite romantic. And DVD’s are cheap.

P.S.  Have you nominated by food blog& Veracity" target="_blank"> Sass & Veracity for one (or more ) of the 2007 Food Blog Awards, yet? 

Yawn…I think she’s alive. Maybe.

 So do you think it’s a problem that yesterday, I FINALLY wrote after so many days, and then when I logged in today to write again WOOT, I’d discovered the post I wrote yesterday…um…not there.  Or here.  I guess I’d inadvertantly marked it “private.”  So sorry ‘bout that.  Now, here it is.  And only a day late.  Sheesh.

Okay. I’ve sulked long enough. I’ve dragged myself out from under the bush I crawled under to get over myself. Actually, I’m just transitioning between Fall and Winter. Getting ready. I’m not sure what for, but it seems to be something I do. Sounds scientific, doesn’t it?

And since I have serious ground to cover, I’ll start by warning you that I’m loaded with tagging. Pay backs are hell, aren’t they?

About two decades ago, Sam of Temporarily Me (who is slogging through NaBloPoMo like a trooper and is almost there!) smacked me upside the head with something about Crazy 8’s. If you don’t know Sam, you should. She’s completely hilarious and says what my brain is thinking with respect to calling things like she sees them. Plus, she designs her own site and I swear changes the design like someone changes underwear. It’s the best comparison I could come up with, OKAY? Her designs are excellent and when I actually get around to acting serious about design, after I grow up, I want to be just like her. The woman has talent. Be nice to her when you visit. She’s preggers and is a tad cranky right now. Teasing, Sam! Teasing. Don’t hit me, ‘kay?

This oughta take about three years to finish. And I have a sale to run to right in the middle of it just to make sure it takes all day. (Erm…just got back from the sale. The line was down the block, so no.) Moving right along with this Tag-a-Scrum-Dilly-Icious post.

Here are my Crazy 8’s:

8 things I’m passionate about:

1. Solitude. You know. Places with no people in them. Lots of complete silence. I know. People in hell want ice water. Feh.
2. Days with no plans. Lots of them. Like forever.
3. Cooking, food, eating, grocery shopping, looking at cooking magazines, cooking blogs, restaurants, reality food shows, does that cover it?
4. Writing, words, letters, typography, books
5. How much I completely detest jerks in general and people who drive like their face. (Have you ever really wondered what that means?) And….ahem.
6. My Mac and if you touch it you’re toast. Don’t — 
7. Being passionate about being passionately passionate about passion
8. My guys (this is here for those of you who have already clucked about my not putting it in the numero uno spot and gimmeabreakalready).

8 things I say often:

1. Sonofab*tch
2. Shee*t
3. Jeez Louize
4. It’s hi-LAR-ious.
5. “Go poopoo over there.” (said to Doggo who will drop her load the SECOND she gets out the door because she thinks she’ll get left outdoors even if she never does and it drives me crazy.) Honestly, I only say it twice a day. But it adds up, yanno?
6. Did you have a good day how much homework do you have?
7. I need that (insert item here).
8. I want this (insert item here).

8 books I’ve read recently:

• You don’t actually think I’ve forgotten about these books or this list, do you?

8 things I want to do before I die:

1. Own my own little shop. A cute one that sells lovely things that everyone can’t live without or find anywhere else. With a little fence and flower boxes. And a bell.
2. Figure out how the clothes in my closet that don’t fit multiply in the night even though I keep giving them to the Good Will.
3. Make a real Beef Wellington. You know. The whole enchilada. I’ve made the individual ones a couple of times. But without the cool music in the background.
4. Renovate an old house part by part.
5. Write something that people will actually purchase. A book would be good.
6. Spend an extended time traveling — mostly in Europe.
7. Enjoy exercising. Okay, so maybe pretend like I’ll enjoy it. Sort of.
8. Develop a REAL sense of patience instead of just acting like I already have it oozing out of my pores.

8 songs I can listen to over and over again, and probably have:

1. Beatles: Help
2. Carly Simon: You’re So Vain
3. Heart: Alone
4. Roy Orbison: I Drove All Night
5. Red Hot Chili Peppers: Snow (Hey Oh)
6. Simon and Garfunkel: The Sound of Silence
7. Harry Nilsson: Without You
8. John Lennon: Imagine

8 things that attract me to my friends:

1. Irreverence
2. Common interests (food, wine, snarking, travel, books, gardening, wine…)
3. Food
4. Wine
5. Snarking (this is NOT the same as number one, so put a cork in it, babe.)
6. More wine
7. Laughter. With snorting involved. It’s a gift.
8. Waxing of possibilities and never doing anything about them.

8 things I learned in the last year:

1. You really can just walk away from a career. Period. Okay, so maybe not with bows on or anything. But you can run as fast as you can and keep watch over your shoulder that it’s not chasing you or hiding under your bed at night. Or in the closet.
2. It takes quite a bit of time to blow the dust off of everything you once loved and gave up for a job. About a year. And then some. And even then, some of it is so lost, reminding you that it could be true what they say about opportunity only knocking once. Pessimistic, but lamentably true.
3. There will never be enough hours in a day to blog and then actually do all of the other things I’d like to do. Okay, I know some of you manage, but I’m not. Make that choose not to.
4. You never will do all the things you say you will do if only you didn’t have to go to work. Because you develop new interests. And then you wish you could do all the things you said you’d always do if only…
5. There are some aspects of not having all my female equipment that are actually enjoyable. Okay. One. Maybe two. But I wouldn’t want it back. I was done with it anyway.
6. Your 15-year-old won’t develop a neurosis from his mother relentless food photoshoots.
7. For some of us, there’s no such thing as a Little Black Dress.
8. There really are things to talk about in the evening that aren’t related to work. They’re not scintillating or anything. But still. It’s nice.

Now, who’s up next:

1. Chick (who’s going out of town, so I can spring this on her unsuspecting self)
2. Meleah (who’s probably already been smacked with this one and 10 others)
3. Cooper (who less than loves these things but actually did one not too long ago, so…)
4. Robert (who will most certainly put a redneck spin on this)
5. Olga (who can do this in her sleep, but really because I want to see if she can connect all of it to the “girls.”
   
6. mel (whom I’ve harrassed with this stuff since the beginning and she’s smart enough to ignore me)
   
7. beth (a used to be Paradise resident whom I hope will forgive me because I haven’t known her all that long)
8. if you’re not on this list and are brain dead, by all means, sign yourself up. This one’s not too horribly painful. And besides, you won’t be able to tell if you’re brain dead.

Okay, so now, here’s round two (and I know there are some others, but this will have to suffice for today, because…well…I’ll think of a reason. Surely there is one.

Robert of Observations from the Back 40 honored me with an award:

A Roar for Powerful Words many days ago before I had my shopping meltdown and I’m just now getting around to saying THANKS for the recognition. I appreciate it!