I was sitting across from my friend who is a physician the other day listening to her talk about how busy she has been, "I have been sleeping three hours a night for nights on end." I nodded in recognition of this pattern of existence. Lately I have been running from one meeting to the next, eating my lunch in the car, dashing around like a madwoman trying to keep my obligations from swallowing my life.
Three days ago I decided that my broken car key was too much to keep up with during a busy day. I went to the hardware store, and promptly had three keys made. While waiting I found a nifty, nerdy device that has a retractable chain. One end goes on your belt, the other end has your keys. "Now this," I thought smugly,"will keep me from ever losing my keys again." Seventeen dollars later I exited the small store buoyed by the feeling of finally owning the keyring of my dreams. This is part of a larger quest to find the perfect purse,datebook, shoes, and exercise plan. I want to figure out what works best so I can stop spending time thinking about it. Genetics lie at the heart of my obsessions. My grandmother fell in love with denim shirts, SAS shoes, white bobby socks, white underwear, and denim pants with an elastic waistband. When she realized this she purchased numerous copies of each article and wore them like a uniform. She had enough SAS shoes to last the rest of her life, or so she estimated after purchasing ten pairs and storing them in her closet.
Two days ago my husband finally succeeded in getting me to put that new AAA card into my small red wallet.
One day ago I turned off my car, watched gleefully as my keys retracted into my purse, opened and automatically locked the doors and promptly slammed them shut. Of course the three keys I made, the keyring of my dreams, and the broken key, were inside my car. I was in the act of slamming the door when that moment of recognition flashed into my small brain. "I am slamming the door and locking my keys in the car." It all happened so fast.
One second after slamming the door and locking my keys in the car I realized that my small cell phone, the one that is pink so my husband won't take it accidentally to work, was in my perfect purse next to my small red wallet, and ideal keyring.
It took nearly an hour and one half for Mike's Lock and Key Service to arrive. I stood on the roof of the parking garage, felt the sun on my back and the wind in my hair. Slowly I savored a cup of coffee that I had begged from a friend's office pot. The cup even had those quaint butterfly paper handles. Looking down from my perch I watched as people went to lunch, rode their bikes, talked on the phone while walking. It was the most relaxing 90 minutes of my entire week. After I let go of the fact that I was going to do nothing in that time that would contribute to my workload including reading papers, making phone calls, or organizing assignments for the rest of the week I actually enjoyed it. No one knew where I was, I did not have to answer my phone, and I did not have to say a word to anyone.
Sometimes you get the perfect thing in spite of yourself.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
NPR three minute story
The nurse left work at five o’clock. The doors of the prison clicking behind her as the slight flush of the sunrise backlit lumps of frosted sod in the empty fields. She passed the day shift; no one spoke. Two fluorescent lights flickered a duet. She clocked out and turned her keys over to the control center. The coffee sloshed in the nurse’s empty belly, bitter fumes creeping up her throat as she burped. Her car smelled stale, like her ex-husband’s sweat. The nurse watched the heat slowly eat away at the thin layer of frost on the windshield. She was too tired to use the scraper. Her dull wipers chipped away the ice leaving a gray smear in their wake. Two small holes spread slowly across the glass above her dashboard as the defrost warmed up.
She thought about the inmate’s mouth. Sometime after 3:30 he rolled off the top bunk; supposedly fighting off a nightmare, or maybe his roommate. He knocked out one of his maxillary central incisors. Poor boy, bad luck all around. The nurse put his tooth in some saline. As the inmate rinsed his mouth she said in soothing tones, “Don’t worry, I’ll call the dentist before the end of my shift. He can swing by tomorrow and put it back, easy as you please.” She patted his back as he spit. Within twenty-four hours the gaping hole in the inmate’s gums would reject the tooth as a foreign object.
Under her aluminum carport she could see one light shining from her bedroom, the rest of the small square windows made a short black row across the front of her trailer. She sniffed and looked up at the pink sky clear and cold before unlocking her door.
She needed a hot shower. The smell of the prison, a mix of cheap tobacco, state soap, and microwave popcorn lingered on her skin. Sitting on the toilet contemplating the stubble on her kneecaps, she thought, “I should shave.” Once it got cold her motivation to engage in rituals of personal hygiene diminished. She washed her hands and stared at her teeth, the way they were married to her pink gums, planted in her skull. Her tongue played across their flat wet surfaces. It darted between the small gap on the left and then over to her crooked bicuspid. Each tooth was covered in a fine layer of gritty moss. Her bottom teeth overlapped slightly. They were yellow; brown stains bloomed between them. It was the coffee. The lonely green toothbrush was covered in a fine white film and ragged on the edges from chewing. She often contemplated her complexion while brushing, sometimes stopping to pick a pimple—drawing blood, all the while her jaws working over the bristles of her brush. The sweatshirt and flannel pajamas hung loyally on the doorknob. They smelled sour like her towel. She picked up her uniform, and rooted around in the pockets. Moving across the hall to her bedroom she sat on the edge of the unmade bed and clicked off the tiny lamp. Morning was starting to shine through the single window into the small room. She held the vial, fished from her uniform, up to the light and shook it like a snow globe. There, swirling at the bottom trailing a wisp of bloody pulp, was the inmate’s naked tooth. She put the vial on her nightstand next to the lamp. It rolled a little but stopped. The flat pillow beneath her head was musty and damp. The nurse reached for the vial once more and grinned.
She thought about the inmate’s mouth. Sometime after 3:30 he rolled off the top bunk; supposedly fighting off a nightmare, or maybe his roommate. He knocked out one of his maxillary central incisors. Poor boy, bad luck all around. The nurse put his tooth in some saline. As the inmate rinsed his mouth she said in soothing tones, “Don’t worry, I’ll call the dentist before the end of my shift. He can swing by tomorrow and put it back, easy as you please.” She patted his back as he spit. Within twenty-four hours the gaping hole in the inmate’s gums would reject the tooth as a foreign object.
Under her aluminum carport she could see one light shining from her bedroom, the rest of the small square windows made a short black row across the front of her trailer. She sniffed and looked up at the pink sky clear and cold before unlocking her door.
She needed a hot shower. The smell of the prison, a mix of cheap tobacco, state soap, and microwave popcorn lingered on her skin. Sitting on the toilet contemplating the stubble on her kneecaps, she thought, “I should shave.” Once it got cold her motivation to engage in rituals of personal hygiene diminished. She washed her hands and stared at her teeth, the way they were married to her pink gums, planted in her skull. Her tongue played across their flat wet surfaces. It darted between the small gap on the left and then over to her crooked bicuspid. Each tooth was covered in a fine layer of gritty moss. Her bottom teeth overlapped slightly. They were yellow; brown stains bloomed between them. It was the coffee. The lonely green toothbrush was covered in a fine white film and ragged on the edges from chewing. She often contemplated her complexion while brushing, sometimes stopping to pick a pimple—drawing blood, all the while her jaws working over the bristles of her brush. The sweatshirt and flannel pajamas hung loyally on the doorknob. They smelled sour like her towel. She picked up her uniform, and rooted around in the pockets. Moving across the hall to her bedroom she sat on the edge of the unmade bed and clicked off the tiny lamp. Morning was starting to shine through the single window into the small room. She held the vial, fished from her uniform, up to the light and shook it like a snow globe. There, swirling at the bottom trailing a wisp of bloody pulp, was the inmate’s naked tooth. She put the vial on her nightstand next to the lamp. It rolled a little but stopped. The flat pillow beneath her head was musty and damp. The nurse reached for the vial once more and grinned.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Dull women, clean houses, and tea
This morning I sat around drinking tea dressed for running for nearly an hour before finally dragging myself out the door. I knew it was going to be a miserable run. It takes atleast a mile before my brain will give in and quit complaining. The distance I ran was just enough to relieve my guilt but not to really enjoy the act of running.
My next chore was to make breakfast and then clean the house. Neither of which thrilled me. My sweet husband hangs around on weekend mornings like a hound dog. He looks at me with those big brown eyes and says, "What are you going to eat?" --translation, "feed me". Our breakfast was lovely and easy, nothing to complain about, really. After finishing I sat and drank more tea and thought about cleaning. Drinking tea is a wonderful way to put off doing what you don't want to do. You have to wait for the water to boil in the kettle and then of course steep and cool. To make a good cup of tea takes atleast 15 minutes. To drink it can take another ten.
Usually by Friday night my house is dreadful; dust bunnies, bits of paper, used coffee cups, toys, dirty clothes, and books were everywhere. The picking up is the worst part. There is so much stuff everywhere. The urge to simply throw everything in a large garbage bag and donate it to the closest Goodwill is overwhelming. Putting everything in its place, some place, any place really is the worst part of the chore. I actually like scrubbing--especially bathrooms. There is something gratifying about taking your paper towel or rag away from a surface and seeing it covered in hair and dust and grime.
Over the years I have decided that the act of cleaning the house requires a fine balance of action and procrastination sprinkled with needless distractions like Amazon.com and the New York Times. I can work in small bursts then I have to "rest" and feel sorry for myself. Usually these small breaks between tasks are topped off with coffee and pawing around on the internet or sorting through books or beads. By the end of my effort I am fooling myself by thinking, "Gee, this isn't so bad, maybe I don't need Rose to come after all!". Foolish notions of the domestically incompetent. I think my distaste for cleaning is genetic. My mother no longer cleans her house. My father has to do it so he doesn't go nuts. My grandmother passed down her kitchen plaque to me that said, "Dull women have immaculate houses." This is our bit of family gospel.
I wonder about the art of procrastination. Some people seem to perfect putting it off until the last minute driven by the adrenaline and hopelessness of it all. Others never ever procrastinate. They freeze casseroles for dinners weeks away, send birthday cards early, they even contact AAA before leaving for a trip to get one of those custom maps with the route highlighted. I wonder about those folks. Do they feel less stress? Is their life adventurous or is it like eating at Shoneys?
Next week when I am faced with a house covered in a patina of domestic filth perhaps I will regret not taking that dish down to the sink or picking up those dirty socks, but for now I think I will procrastinate some more, drink tea, and blog.
My next chore was to make breakfast and then clean the house. Neither of which thrilled me. My sweet husband hangs around on weekend mornings like a hound dog. He looks at me with those big brown eyes and says, "What are you going to eat?" --translation, "feed me". Our breakfast was lovely and easy, nothing to complain about, really. After finishing I sat and drank more tea and thought about cleaning. Drinking tea is a wonderful way to put off doing what you don't want to do. You have to wait for the water to boil in the kettle and then of course steep and cool. To make a good cup of tea takes atleast 15 minutes. To drink it can take another ten.
Usually by Friday night my house is dreadful; dust bunnies, bits of paper, used coffee cups, toys, dirty clothes, and books were everywhere. The picking up is the worst part. There is so much stuff everywhere. The urge to simply throw everything in a large garbage bag and donate it to the closest Goodwill is overwhelming. Putting everything in its place, some place, any place really is the worst part of the chore. I actually like scrubbing--especially bathrooms. There is something gratifying about taking your paper towel or rag away from a surface and seeing it covered in hair and dust and grime.
Over the years I have decided that the act of cleaning the house requires a fine balance of action and procrastination sprinkled with needless distractions like Amazon.com and the New York Times. I can work in small bursts then I have to "rest" and feel sorry for myself. Usually these small breaks between tasks are topped off with coffee and pawing around on the internet or sorting through books or beads. By the end of my effort I am fooling myself by thinking, "Gee, this isn't so bad, maybe I don't need Rose to come after all!". Foolish notions of the domestically incompetent. I think my distaste for cleaning is genetic. My mother no longer cleans her house. My father has to do it so he doesn't go nuts. My grandmother passed down her kitchen plaque to me that said, "Dull women have immaculate houses." This is our bit of family gospel.
I wonder about the art of procrastination. Some people seem to perfect putting it off until the last minute driven by the adrenaline and hopelessness of it all. Others never ever procrastinate. They freeze casseroles for dinners weeks away, send birthday cards early, they even contact AAA before leaving for a trip to get one of those custom maps with the route highlighted. I wonder about those folks. Do they feel less stress? Is their life adventurous or is it like eating at Shoneys?
Next week when I am faced with a house covered in a patina of domestic filth perhaps I will regret not taking that dish down to the sink or picking up those dirty socks, but for now I think I will procrastinate some more, drink tea, and blog.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Running Barefoot at Hatteras
There are no markers for how far you have gone or will go. The ground is an endless stretch of broken shells, sand and surf. The alpha rhythm of the waves rolling in and out like the earth breathing seems synched with your heart and lungs, blood pounding in your head. Every dune begins to look alike, each small parting between the sea oats the possible path back to your weathered beach house. Your sweat whisked away by the constant wind. How far, how far, how far--your thoughts-- skipping back and forth between the machine of your body and the tablet of the sky. Voices, snatches of songs, conversations now passed roll through your mind like railroad cars. Your feet the arches made stronger, mid foot fall foot fall foot fall. You can feel the sand absorbing your weight, muscle, fat, and bone. Arms pumping your torso seems to roll with your pelvis. You can feel the sockets of your hips bones rotating back and forth like the fulcrum of a pendulum. Your body knows when you have finished the first mile it stops complaining and settles in for the ride, breathing and pounding a steady rhythm. No pain.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
A second hand life
Well, yesterday, I finally grew up. At 10:43 am two men and a truck pulled into my driveway and delivered a large dining room table, six MATCHING chairs, and a leather arm chair. All of it---brand new. Yes, I actually picked it out, paid for it--outright (that was fun!-F@*K the credit card companies) and had it delivered. I had to wait nearly 72 hours before it arrived. An hour later, while sitting in my new arm chair, I felt a sort of sad feeling slowly move over me, like throwing out an old but soft pair of jeans with a giant hole in the seat or finally retiring your favorite running shoes. While my house did look nice and normal, I missed my collection of second hand chairs, my rag tag arm chair and our wonky table. One of our kitchen chairs belonged to my great grand mother; long ago one of my dogs used it for a chew toy. Another appeared in my house after I nursed an entire bottle of red wine and walked home. I think it was sitting on the side of the road with someone's garbage--at least that's what I "remember". Then there was the chair that my parents found at a yard sale to go with the desk they bought me as a child. I can still remember the green and red plaid seat with black stripes, a six-year old's dream. Our former table was purchased from my old dear friend Lee. He was moving back to North Carolina and could not take it with him. It was a steal for only $40.00 and it reminded me of our friendship that stretches back to junior high school. There was a circle burned into one end where someone set down a very hot pot. The other end slanted up ever so slightly. The arm chair that was replaced I found at stuff, it was ugly but so comfortable. My daughter laid in it every morning with "snuggle blanket" while I make breakfast. My new furniture does not have any stories yet.
All my dogs are second hand, even my husband was "used." Nearly all my clothes are second hand. Each of these things (no offense honey) is endowed with a story. The way it came into my life is unusual and meaningful. While my new furniture is lovely, there is no story, it came from a furniture store, and now it's here. My parents always bought second hand furniture. They call their pieces antiques. When I was growing up we always sat around this kitchen table that my father bought at a yard sale in Bangor, Maine. He bought it over a weekend and on Monday morning the fellow that sold it to him committed suicide with the business end of a gun. Those New Englanders, always the practical sort. Of course we kept the table anyway. My dresser is another yard sale find. My parents bought it and refinished it before I was born. It was always one of my favorite things. It still is, even though it is dying a slow and painful choking death as it overflows with pajamas and tee shirts. The drawers barely close. I just can't bring myself to get rid of it. I would feel like such a traitor. The drawers are still lined with the paper bags my mom cut with pinking shears almost four decades ago.
Hopefully my new furniture will quit seeming so shiny and alien in our home. As the years go on, I know I will treasure the lunch I had with my children at our new dining room table. I told them, "You two are the first people to ever eat at this table." I wonder if they will remember.
All my dogs are second hand, even my husband was "used." Nearly all my clothes are second hand. Each of these things (no offense honey) is endowed with a story. The way it came into my life is unusual and meaningful. While my new furniture is lovely, there is no story, it came from a furniture store, and now it's here. My parents always bought second hand furniture. They call their pieces antiques. When I was growing up we always sat around this kitchen table that my father bought at a yard sale in Bangor, Maine. He bought it over a weekend and on Monday morning the fellow that sold it to him committed suicide with the business end of a gun. Those New Englanders, always the practical sort. Of course we kept the table anyway. My dresser is another yard sale find. My parents bought it and refinished it before I was born. It was always one of my favorite things. It still is, even though it is dying a slow and painful choking death as it overflows with pajamas and tee shirts. The drawers barely close. I just can't bring myself to get rid of it. I would feel like such a traitor. The drawers are still lined with the paper bags my mom cut with pinking shears almost four decades ago.
Hopefully my new furniture will quit seeming so shiny and alien in our home. As the years go on, I know I will treasure the lunch I had with my children at our new dining room table. I told them, "You two are the first people to ever eat at this table." I wonder if they will remember.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Lost Dogs
I love animals. I love to adopt animals. I am a recovering animal adoption addict. I am down to one old adopted love pillow dog and two ferrets. Life is simple, the house is clean, and our vet bills are reasonable. But... two nights ago I was coming home from the prison with my friend, another AAA member and we spotted a large white dog wandering along the side of the road. Our hearts started to flutter, we saw a golden opportunity to get our fix. We pulled over to the side of the road and immediately started to dig through my car for the leash I always keep in the car...just in case.
The dog was a Great Pyrenees. Clearly lost, clearly someone's sweet heart, covered from head to tail in burrs and mud. He was tired, in fact he could barely walk to the next house. We thought about loading him into the car. Unfortunately I not only keep an extra leash, I have wipes-in case I get dirty or freaked out about germs, food to snack on or keep the kids quiet, a change of clothes for those mornings where I dribble coffee, a set of running clothes-just in case I actually decide to run (they have been unused for at least 3 months) swim noodles because I a too lazy to put them away, boxes of books from the school to home and back to school circuit, and at least two tool boxes of art supplies-for the kids at Tate, the prison and other folks that are my students, and more than 10 used coffee/tea cups (shameless). Needless to say, there was no room. Not to mention the dog weighed over two hundred pounds. We decided to walk house to house to find the owner. Surely someone was desperately searching for this mammoth sweetheart. We finally ended up at Tom Dooley's the local ferrier. He had no idea who the dog belonged to. His son, Joe, the nicest kid ever, helped me hoist the dog into the back of a pick up and we brought him home. My husband looked at me when I walked up with the giant dog with eyes that said, "Honey, you have fallen off the wagon, I am so dissappointed." But he is a softy so we kept the dog overnight. I dutifully brought it to the vet the next day to see if he had a chip. Quickly the office filled with a buzz. The excitement built as they scanned him and indeed he was chipped. We called, the other end of the phone would surely connect with an owner who was crazy with worry. It was better than any reality television show. Everyone hoping for a tearful reunion. We waited and then the receptionist's face fell--the number was disconnected. Suddenly a new story emerged. Perhaps, I thought, this poor dog was abandoned. Maybe his owner was lying dead on a bike trail near our house and the dog was trying to find help for her. [Funny, in my mind it was a her]. Maybe he jumped out a car headed to Nevada and was trying to find his way back home to a victorian cottage in New Hampshire. The possibilities and drama would continue. I got a name and address from the receptionist and left the dog at the vet's office so if the owner was found she could claim the dog immediately. Obviously, there would still be a tearful reunion and I would be named a good samaritan. I took the name and address and googled them. Evidently the the owner had moved many times since adopting this gentle giant from the animal shelter. Currently she was living in Arkansas. A plot twist--This dog was clearly meant to be mine. To live at my house and be part of our family. The stars were crossed we were destined to be a couple. Dog and guardian. Side by side forever. My husband consented to "fostering" the dog. In my little AAA heart I knew that no one would ever want the dog as much as I did. Also he was old with no teeth, he seemed to have mild dementia, and a bad habit of peeing on things--perfect. I called this morning to arrange to have him groomed and begin our deep dog and gaurdian love affair. The receptionist told me the wonderful news, they found his owner. I honestly was crushed. Ahh, the roller coaster of Animal Adoption Addiction- a vicious cyle.
The dog was a Great Pyrenees. Clearly lost, clearly someone's sweet heart, covered from head to tail in burrs and mud. He was tired, in fact he could barely walk to the next house. We thought about loading him into the car. Unfortunately I not only keep an extra leash, I have wipes-in case I get dirty or freaked out about germs, food to snack on or keep the kids quiet, a change of clothes for those mornings where I dribble coffee, a set of running clothes-just in case I actually decide to run (they have been unused for at least 3 months) swim noodles because I a too lazy to put them away, boxes of books from the school to home and back to school circuit, and at least two tool boxes of art supplies-for the kids at Tate, the prison and other folks that are my students, and more than 10 used coffee/tea cups (shameless). Needless to say, there was no room. Not to mention the dog weighed over two hundred pounds. We decided to walk house to house to find the owner. Surely someone was desperately searching for this mammoth sweetheart. We finally ended up at Tom Dooley's the local ferrier. He had no idea who the dog belonged to. His son, Joe, the nicest kid ever, helped me hoist the dog into the back of a pick up and we brought him home. My husband looked at me when I walked up with the giant dog with eyes that said, "Honey, you have fallen off the wagon, I am so dissappointed." But he is a softy so we kept the dog overnight. I dutifully brought it to the vet the next day to see if he had a chip. Quickly the office filled with a buzz. The excitement built as they scanned him and indeed he was chipped. We called, the other end of the phone would surely connect with an owner who was crazy with worry. It was better than any reality television show. Everyone hoping for a tearful reunion. We waited and then the receptionist's face fell--the number was disconnected. Suddenly a new story emerged. Perhaps, I thought, this poor dog was abandoned. Maybe his owner was lying dead on a bike trail near our house and the dog was trying to find help for her. [Funny, in my mind it was a her]. Maybe he jumped out a car headed to Nevada and was trying to find his way back home to a victorian cottage in New Hampshire. The possibilities and drama would continue. I got a name and address from the receptionist and left the dog at the vet's office so if the owner was found she could claim the dog immediately. Obviously, there would still be a tearful reunion and I would be named a good samaritan. I took the name and address and googled them. Evidently the the owner had moved many times since adopting this gentle giant from the animal shelter. Currently she was living in Arkansas. A plot twist--This dog was clearly meant to be mine. To live at my house and be part of our family. The stars were crossed we were destined to be a couple. Dog and guardian. Side by side forever. My husband consented to "fostering" the dog. In my little AAA heart I knew that no one would ever want the dog as much as I did. Also he was old with no teeth, he seemed to have mild dementia, and a bad habit of peeing on things--perfect. I called this morning to arrange to have him groomed and begin our deep dog and gaurdian love affair. The receptionist told me the wonderful news, they found his owner. I honestly was crushed. Ahh, the roller coaster of Animal Adoption Addiction- a vicious cyle.
Dead Racoons and Cherry pie
We have the best neighbors; in the front quiet bird lovers with a great dog, to the side a family of Mormons, lovely people, behind us the most interesting couple... The male part of the couple, I will call him Bob, is a bit of a yard working recluse. Out of all of our neighbors they are the most like us, obviously the favorite. If he is out in the yard he is wearing earphones, the big yellow kind. When he talks it is like Winnie the Pooh. You have to concentrate on listening to him and take care not to interrupt. He invited us over last weekend to pick his cherries. An invitation we look forward to each summer. As we crossed the fence at the Hydrangea and passed his winged spindle tree (Burning bush)I noticed the sound of buzzing flies. There in a "have a heart" trap was a dead raccoon. Perhaps the same raccoon that has vandalized my bird feeders every night for at least three summers. I like to outsmart him. Sometimes I he tiptoed across the railing of our porch and swung the bird feeders to and fro like prayer wheels, spreading seeds into my flower beds and filing the cracks in our porch. I always liked that image. Now here he was a bloated corpse. Last week my bird loving neighbors let us know that they had spotted four baby raccoons-that he is actually a she is too much to think about. Bob said that he trapped her and then tried to give her food and water but she got angry at him. She died in the cage before he had a chance to relocate her. I can't imagine why that bloated corpse is still in his yard peppered with flies. We picked our cherries but all I could think to make was horror pie
Sunday, June 21, 2009
First Day, First Post--
So, I am up here in my little loft/bedroom/studio/office listening to kid noises and smelling my hubby's lunch, left over Indian food from Exotic India. It's Father's day. My own father is in Haiti on a "mission" with the Presbyterians from Little Washington working to combat soil erosion. The Father of my children will be so excited later today when he opens his present, Optimus Prime and Unforgiven. Last night I had a wonderful dinner with three great women. On the way home Wendy Miller, a.k.a. the lead singer of The Red Hot Monkeys, and I agreed to both make a commitment to blogging and to have our students blog too. We'll see where this goes!
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