It’s not Wednesday, and I’m rarely wordless, but I thought this pretty much summed up where my head is these days. The sad thing is, it isn’t like it wasn’t watered or didn’t have light. It just never really got any attention. Oh well, huh?
Oh well.
Category: Peaflock
-
Finding time to relax again
Busy season is finally over yet another year. There have been so many I’ve lost count. It means the MoH is home before dark, and that it’s time for me to have an idea or two to plant in his mind before he heads for work in the morning about what we might do in the evening. It’s so he can begin to feel like there’s actually a day — or at least part of one — to be enjoyed even though it’s not quite the weekend.
Or maybe it was that we were celebrating the beginning of the weekend — the first of many to come before the next string of late nights and work-filled weekends.
-
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.
-
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.
-
It’s Dark at 3am.
Sometimes at night I wake and am not exactly sure how long I’ve been so, my eyes open and staring at patterns the too bright light across the street makes on our bedroom ceiling. It’s so quiet, even with the windows still open to let the cool Fall night air in. Everything is still.
I have no reason to be awake at this hour. No worries, no dreams to think about. And assuming I’ve had enough sleep for the night, I feel my way into the closet for my slippers and a sweatshirt and head downstairs, my dog following me as she always does. The stairs aren’t easy for her anymore.
The early morning sky is still dark, and I stand just outside the patio door while the dog takes care of her business, not quite wanting to venture too far away from me. She worries that I’ll leave her out there alone, and I know that if I could see her eyes, they’d register that concern. The stars are bright and I can see the Big Dipper hanging heavily, nearly touching the shadowy horizon in the East, each star twinkling weakly. I take my usual count and notice the Small Dipper as well, more brightly than I have in some time. And there’s the star that’s red and most likely long dead now, its light still traveling to us from so far away.
The dog and I quietly go back inside, she wagging her tail for the expected Milkbone she’s gotten since she was a puppy for not peeing in the house, and I to risk the beeps of the microwave to heat up a cup of stale coffee.
It’s Monday, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter so much anymore, but this Monday the RTR begins his week off school for the holiday, and we take on our third week of construction. Maybe that’s why I’m sitting here instead of falling back to sleep. It’s quiet, and I can sit in the glow of my screen and not see the shambles my house is in. There are no hammers or saws, nor questions to answer about decisions that will cost more money.
So here I sit. Thinking about nothing in particular and waiting for the sounds of the day to begin so I can make a real pot of coffee without waking the others up.
In the meantime, I’ll listen to the hissing of the refrigerator, and the snorts my cat is making, chewing on her fleas.
-
My Non-Fickle Car Life in Hondas
This morning, someone on CNBC made a comment about American car customers being fickle. I didn’t recognize him, and that doesn’t really matter. Sometimes, I think the talking heads that flash on and off the television don’t know what comes out of their mouths most of the time, running a bit like someone who is in the throes of intestinal distress and searching for a bathroom.
I immediately disagreed, knowing I would fail to qualify for fickleness. I’ve had a love affair with Hondas since 1975 when I purchased a brand spanking new Civic hatchback with a “Hondamatic” transmission. I was 19 years old. I loved that car and the responsibility of making my $84.75 monthly payment. I think it was the first time I actually began to feel like an adult with something that belonged specifically to me.
There was a period where I was Honda-less, though. I had a Jeep CJ-5 before Chrysler or whomever bought the company turned them into something that only looked like a Jeep. It was fun for a while. I learned how to drive a stick, let some air out of the over-sized tires and blast up the side of a giant sand dune — my hair bandana flapping in the hot breeze, my bikini clad skin darkening by the minute.
I never quite fit the role of desert rat I was introduced to by my first husband, but it was what lured me away from Hondas for a few years. I could talk about things like leaf springs, and 4-wheel drive traction. I slept in a tiny tent in desolate areas, and drove around without doors attached to the side of my Jeep on warm days. I visited shops that smelled of grease and sparkled with chrome rims and exhaust pipes. I also spent time stuck in the middle of nowhere with flat tires, cracked radiators, and broken u-joints. That’s what happens when a vehicle purchased for everyday use is thrashed about on days off and vacations. The two don’t exactly mix.
It was interesting while it lasted, but I sadly divorced the Jeep. The radiator fan finally spinning off its track, I left it in a parking lot where a customer asked if he could buy it for his son. I said yes, and watched as one of the more interesting parts of my life was towed away, its new teen-aged owner grinning ear to ear, leaving me with mixed memories.
And then I bought another Honda.
At that point, my two older boys were about five and six, and because the four-door gently used Civic made a strange noise when it was in high gear and reaching a particular speed, we named it the ST, for “Silver Tornado.” It served quite a few important years getting me to and from work, to SDSU to finish my abandoned degree, and my boys to and from school, and visits with their dad. I have warm memories of our very own type of “car talk” revolving around the world they viewed from their backseat positions: trees, hills, clouds…and water towers. When I think of the topics now, they’re all that can be seen when you’re a small human seatbelted deep into a car. Such very cute little boys.
I miss them now that they’re grown.
After I finished my credentialing program and the MoH and I married, we were able to leave behind our string of cheap apartments and purchase a condominium, creating a new home for our composite family. Having a good monthly salary instead of the once a week check I squeezed while in school soon allowed me to donate the old ST to the local high school auto shop, and purchase a shiny new teal Honda Accord with a luxurious creamy interior and automatic windows. Automatic transmission. A moon roof.
I thought I’d arrived.
Although my two older boys had many years in that Honda, too, it quickly became the RT’s car. His place to drip milk from his car seat, and then drop French fries from Happy Meals in cracks where I’d find them petrified weeks later. His car to sit in more quietly since his brothers were so much older and often not in the car with him. His space to have books and cars, rocks, and odd seeds he’d collect at school, calling them army men. The creamy upholstery slowly began to age, the relentless sun in Paradise scorching it to the point where it would soon tear.
So with a mere 11,500 miles on its not quite 10 year old engine, I sold it to one of my son’s friends and bought another Honda: an Acura 3.2 TL which still sits in my driveway today.
The plan was to give it to the RT when he was old enough to drive, and although that time is rapidly approaching, I’m not quite ready to give up my car. Yes, there are dings in the sides of it from careless people in parking lots and students slinging backpacks over their shoulders in a hurry to get home. The carpet is beginning to wear in spots as well. I tire of the dust showing more quickly than it would on a lighter color, but I like it. I like the idea that its reliability and comfort holds the remaining couple of years of driving my youngest here and there — he with his iPod earbuds in, me forgetting that when I want him to notice something out the window, forcing him to politely pull them out of his ears to listen to his mother.
No, I think I’ll hold on to this the last of my Hondas. It has a few more memories left in it.
And then I’ll talk the MoH into one.
April 10, 2012 — I am now the owner of a light blue MINI Cooper with a white top and the Acura I enjoyed for so many years now resides with the MoH’s parents who I hope are enjoying its comfortable ride. I have to say driving the MINI does remind me a bit of tooling around in my first little Honda Civic — the small one with the hatchback. I suppose this makes me fickle, but I’d say that considering 34 of the 38 years I’ve been driving I’ve owned a Honda, I can’t be too fickle.
-
Piggy Banks: I’ll bet Warren Buffet had one.
If I remember correctly, my sister got a piggy bank for her fourth birthday. She is the youngest in our family, so it’s never been quite clear as to why my younger brother and myself were passed up on the piggy gifting. It was a cute little pig — fat-bellied and pink, just like she was when she was little. She’s thin as a whip now (smart, too…) and no longer has her piggy bank (thanks to the bottom-dwelling loser who crawled through her bedroom window and broke it, stealing her money…), but I’m thinking that owning one while she was growing up must have put the idea of saving into her brain in a fierce kind of way. By the time she was 20, she had a nice little nest egg in the bank, a flashy sports car, and her own condominium.Yes, she did.
My brother and I have never been as thrilled as she has been to save money, and I’m thinking it’s because we didn’t have piggy banks. You know, tainted at an early age? Marked and doomed to be spend thrifts? We must have thought that money grew on trees, or that we’d make excellent tax payers when we grew up. You know, sort of simulate the economy single handedly? I know Uncle Sam probably has a special place reserved for each of us some day…
…AFTER we all survive the financial doom and gloom that continues to unfold before us all.
I recently bought a very cute piggy for one of my nieces who turned two, thinking not only that it was the cutest thing I’d ever seen, but that maybe I could accomplish a few thing with my purchase (since I never bought one for my three sons or any of my nieces or nephews except the youngest…):
1. Say Happy Birthday to a real cutie pie (and give her the gift that will pay big rewards later in life…SAVINGS, a sense of self-worth, independence, moo-lah — wait, that would be a cow bank…)
2. Stimulate the economy by doing more than just clicking ads…(I’m extremely good at this…Ask me how to S.P.E.N.D.)
3. Support the talented blogger, Lynn of Korff Ceramic Originals who makes these incredibly cute and well-made banks (plus a whole lot more…)
4. Out class those who are burying their savings in Folger’s coffee cans in their back yards (which is what my mother would have done if she still had a back yard to dig in…)
Think about it.
Piggy banks can be excellent for those of us well beyond toddlerhood, too, right? It’s never too late to save. They can be used for incentive: money for every mile you run, or sit up you complete, or pound you lose. You can save loose change from the washer or your teen aged son’s bedroom floor — your husband’s pockets. Set a goal and insert the coinage or paper. It works. Little by little.
Hell, if I used one to deposit the money I saved for each glass of wine I didn’t drink, I’d have a nice little nest egg in about a week. But I worry about the future of all those wineries I stimulate.
Ask Warren Buffet. He knows. I’ll bet he had a piggy bank when he was growing up, too. Think about it. The holidays are around the corner, and Lynn personalizes…How cool is that?
I’m thinking I just may need more piggy banks… -
Time for a Remodel
I’m truly in a quandry. As I look back over the past year, so much has changed that no one would notice but me. I’m speaking of my blog world, and not the real world, which is so chaotic right now. I’d like to say that I believe I can impact change on the latter, but for as much as I harp, I’m not close to being a blip on the radar of change. With respect to cyberspace, that’s different.There’s been a shift of my interests there, and when I think carefully about that shift, it seems that it’s been coerced by the group that loves to look at, think about, and cook great food. It’s compelling, and I imagine at times that I have some small shop with a large window in front that people can walk by each day, gazing at what I’ve put out for them, to tempt them to stop and look a bit longer, or perhaps even walk inside and stay for a while. The key word would be imagine.
I once imagined or even longed for a shop of my own one day, but I’ve decided that having an imaginary shop is much less expensive, and perhaps just as rewarding considering I do get to decide what to prepare, and enjoy it myself.
But as I’ve said before, it’s quite time consuming keeping that shop, and so this place is pushed aside. And when I have time for neither, this is the space I want to fill. Often the other is more of a compulsion, a responsibility, a job.
Writing here has never felt that way.
I’m not quite sure how that happened, but I find it all very interesting — interesting enough to wonder about something. What if the two were combined? Others have done it. And as I read through the many food blogs I enjoy, I notice that because their writers only keep one blog, they are more inclined to write about other facets of life and living. It’s nice.
But I was thinking of something different. Certainly it’s been done before, and a perfect example of someone who does it very well is Pioneer Woman. I’ve always thought that having a single place that contains a space for everything that keeps my brain occupied would be perfect, but have always been limited by my knowledge of how all of this website business works. Finding time to write, cook, photograph, and learn how to set up and manage an involved website would be quite daunting for me, but I think I could do it. The only aspect of it all that’s holding me back is being unsure about whether the two can actually coexist.
In the long run, I think it would help me be a bit more humane to my readers here. It must seem at times as if I’m schizophrenic, ranting about politics, moaning over my pets, or snarking about whatever unfortunate person is being lambasted in the press. Somehow, I think that if each of those personalities could fit into its own box, it would be so much more neat and orderly.
Labeled. You know how I crave labels…
So think about that. You know, give it a good three or four seconds of your valuable time and let me know what you think.
In the mean time, I have to get my real world shaped up. I may not be building a lodge like Pioneer Woman, but this place certainly needs some attention. I’ve long complained about the damage our pets have done to the carpet, and have finally decided to have someone come out to give an estimate on floors. I want to get rid of all the carpet so I can enjoy my aging pets who will continue to leak, drip, and drop their various and assorted bodily unmentionables regardless of how much I dab and complain about it. No more carpet would mean no more dust, fuss, or muss.The challenging part of this is that our bathrooms need to be done as well. Needing to be done can be defined as taking out all the early ’80’s fake burnished gold metal that seems to be covering everything, ripping out the shower since it’s feeble at best, and the tile since it’s really good at growing mold that I don’t want to know the scientific name for or what it’s doing to us.
So if we have the floors done first, then have the bathrooms done, the work on the bathrooms will mess up the floors. If we wait to do the bathrooms first, then the carpet continues to be the disgusting eyesore it’s become.
In a nut shell, I don’t want to have another blog about being any kind of a weekend warrior when it comes to remodeling or redecorating on a budget. But it’s one of the things my brain spends time on, so it could have its very own space for you, kind reader, to skip if you’re not into the Martha side of life.
Just thinking, that’s all.
Good thing it’s free, right?
Okay, back to work.
It would be so nice if it was all free!
-
School Underway and All Systems Go…so far.
With the first week of school under our belt, life should settle into a comfortable, but relentless pace. Sounds dramatic, even if it isn’t wholly accurate. Suffice it to say it should be relentless for the RTR and I, who are most comfortable in our house potato state.
We prefer to characterize ourselves as easily entertained. Simply entertained? Okay, how about low maintenance in the entertainment department.
The junior year in high school blew in for my youngest this past week, and with it the expectations of a cool 150 pages of U.S. History and exam each week, and a studio art class that will, by the end of the year, allow him to produce a portfolio that is quite the humdinger. There’s a project due every Friday and with the supplies and studio fee, the MoH’s plastic is about $375 heavier. Unbelievable.
The decision to take Statistics instead of Calculus seems to be working — sure there’s homework every night, too, but it’s the “easy” class and he gets that done first. Physics fits in here somewhere, but I haven’t figured that out yet. The English teacher seems to be nowhere in sight. AGAIN. I know that this recurring theme is some perverse punishment meant solely for me — dedicated English teacher and passionate writing teacher that I once was.
The English teacher is the only one of his teachers that didn’t send home a syllabus. I’ve never figured out how that’s even ethical… Okay, so, here’s my kid for a year. Teach him, but I don’t need to know anything about any of your plans because I’m just supposed to trust that you’re a professional, because you know, all teachers are professionals and have the exact same practices, right? And that when my kid begins to show signs of faltering, and he will, trust me, that we will have absolutely nothing to go on to pitch in and support him like we know you expect us to, or we’ll be forever known as slacker parents, which wouldn’t be true, but you’d think it anyways.
You can tell I’m pretty much over school right?
Between my own education, my career, my boys education…I dunno. I think I gave at the office. But I think I’m going to enjoy my job as Chief Buttress in the History and Art departments this year.
Ah, yep.
-
You, too can enjoy life past 30
Today is my birthday. And as much as I can say that many women my age choose not to admit their age, I’m proud of mine.
I’m 52 years old. Not 52 years young, or 52 years better. It doesn’t need to be made into something other than what it is.
Fifty-two.
The year I was born, The Platters recorded “The Great Pretender,” Elvis made it to U.S. hit charts for the first time, and Doris Day’s serenade of “Que Sera, Sera” let all who listened know that the future was not for us to decide.
I beg to differ.
Carousel was playing in theaters, and The Edge of Night could be seen on television. Jackson Pollock died in a car crash, Eisenhower was re-elected President, and IBM invented the “Hard Disk Drive.”
Not that long ago, but at the same time, several lifetimes ago.
I have fond memories of growing up in the latter years of that decade and the earliest of the next, but would love to forget many of the years following, until high school was nearly half over. Yes, there were good things about those years, but I’d never live them again if given the opportunity.
Um, no thanks.
I’ve learned quite a bit in all this time, so indulge me, and I’ll give you the short version:
- Be an optimist. It’s more efficient. But Murphy does exist, so if you acknowledge that and prepare yourself, things actually work out.
- Really bad things can happen to you and you will get over them, but may always struggle to find even a thread of patience with those who insist upon wallowing in self pity. Try anyway.
- You can find beauty in just about anything with little or no effort. People who can’t see it aren’t looking close enough.
- Be generous with yourself. It makes no sense to wait around for someone else to do it.
- Absolutely nothing horrible happens when you leave dishes in the sink at night, or your bed unmade in the morning.
- Acknowledge and work on your own shortcomings and you’ll be so busy you won’t have time to criticize others for theirs.
- It is more than possible to enjoy your own kids as teenagers. I’ve done it three times, and wouldn’t trade those years for toddlerhood if you paid me.
- Life is too short to eat packaged food made with highly processed ingredients. Learn how to cook with fresh ingredients. Yes, you have time. You’re welcome.
- The concept of Family is not something to be taken lightly. A bottle of wine can help.
- Quiet times during the day are the best, even if they’re only five minutes long and in a dark closet.
- It isn’t possible to watch Pride and Prejudice too many times no matter how much my son rolls his eyes.
- It’s important to pay attention to what’s going on in the world. It doesn’t always make sense, but ignoring it makes even less sense.
- Good friends are priceless.
- Deep and lasting love is about Learning, Appreciation, and Compromise. Being silly frequently doesn’t hurt, either.
- It is more than possible to appreciate the way your body looks, even though it’s rounder and more soft than it used to be, and lined and marked where it used to be smooth. Well, mine is.
So, Happy 52nd Birthday to me! Since most of the Bloggosphere seems to be made up of twenty and thirty somethings with very young children and who often write about aging, I hope this helps you know that life is good after 39 — in fact, better. It’s all about attitude.
And and occasional masque using French clay and lots of moisturizer.
