After the winter we’ve had, I don’t think it’d be too much to look forward to Spring as some sort of relief. But, uh … nope. I mean, just look at this:
Photo by Tim Merrick
On the bright side, we haven’t had to do any lawn watering yet, which is weird because it’s mid May, when everything’s usually veering toward brownish and crispy. But the early freeze last winter broke our sprinklers (as well as a big hole in our bathroom ceiling), so now we have time to figure out how to fix that… and … I can’t remember where I was going with that whole upside thing.
On the downside, we have a river at flood stage running through the middle of town, and winter storm warnings (a month before summer, you guys!) to the north and east of here, which makes escape pretty difficult.
It really isn’t any wonder I’m thinking lately about how ready we’d be for disaster and whether Mike had the right idea when he put together our collection of bottled water and canned meat last winter.
So… things are changing around here, in case you hadn’t noticed.
I’d like to think those changes are going to happen/have happened in some sort of orderly and seamless manner, and that I’ll not lose a single one of you, or leave anyone confused.
… kind of like my approach to parenting.
The reality is, I’ve been sitting on this new URL and mulling over this move for almost a year, now, and it’s not like some miraculous window of time has opened up wherein I can concentrate on one thing for any length of time.
So … screw orderly and seamless. I’m just going to go for it. If you’re a subscriber, this might be the last post you get in your inbox unless you click through to the article, where – if all goes well – you’ll be re-directed to the new site and you can re-subscribe there (look for the widget that promises FREE PRIZES, because I’m all about over-promising and the upsell you know).
Who eats grapefruit at a pancake house? Actually, who eats grapefruit anyway?
You know what happens when you order grapefruit? You pay three bucks for an orb of sour water pustules on which you must perform delicate surgery with a weird, serrated spoon to excise each tiny bite full of kill-me-right-now.
This is currently my life. A table in a pancake house, smack in the middle of maple and bacon and bakery smells threatening my thirty-days-and-then-some of meal prep and healthy eating and a whole lotta’ pretending I wouldn’t kill someone for a pancake at any moment.
And I normally don’t even like pancakes.
One morning last week, I was washing my hands in the bathroom sink, the timing of which prompted someone upstairs to yell and pound on the wall.
Our water heater, probably like most residential heaters, delivers water of the precise temperature requested to only one person at a time, with preference to whoever most recently summoned it. Turning on the faucet in one part of the house will result in an either bracing or scalding blast for anyone already showering, possibly also triggering a tirade from a teenager who really should have been ready for school a while ago.
… Which makes me wonder, if we can only ever use one faucet at a time, what brainiac decided this house needed three and a half bathrooms? It’s one of those great mysteries. Like: why is there a cupboard above the refrigerator, all but inaccessible to even the tallest among us? And why do we put stuff there, ever?
I admit I’m not feeling much into the running thing lately.
And here I just signed up for another half marathon. This one’s in April, and I have to tell you if the registration wasn’t almost as arduous as the actual event, I might not have.
That makes more sense the better you know me.
This particular run is a big deal around here. It sells out in a few minutes. And since I’m competitive about stupid stuff, I get kind of wound up around this time every year.
First thing that morning, I was online, watching the countdown clock and yelling at my family to stop streaming stuff so I wouldn’t have fight for bandwidth at noon when registration opened.
I’d signed up and forked over my money before I even thought about what I was doing. And then I thought “well crap. I should probably train now.”
First, regardless of the title, let’s just get this out of the way: there are too many made up words with which one can describe what’s been going on around here, but probably shouldn’t. To wit:
Snowpocalypse, Snowtastrophe, Snowstruction, Snowmageddon, Snowlamity, Snowlocaust, Snowfandango.
Maybe some of those were cute after the snow started coming. But then it kept coming and then started breaking off gutters and marooning cars. Now we’ve had three days of no school, and yesterday there was five more inches of the white stuff and then freezing rain, and there’s no way any of that’s cute any more. None of it.
I actually love the snow. I do. Sure it’s inconvenient and messy, but this year it came right before Christmas and you’d have to be a sour pit of misery not to notice when your neighborhood looks like it’s auditioning for a Hallmark Hall of Fame special about do-gooders and miracles and fa-la-la-la-la.
But, now it’s January, and we’re socked in and preparing for power outages and trees falling and ice dams, and wondering whether we’re insured for flooding. Okay, we’re weather lightweights, but whatever. I’m getting antsy.
It’s that time when we’re supposed to reflect and set goals for the New Year. Or if you’re a member of the more cynical set, it’s time to ridicule resolution-makers and people who take up all the parking spots at the gym until February. Depending on the year, I could go either way.
I was looking through some old posts this morning, thinking about what I’ve put out there (more or less publicly, depending upon how much traffic you think this little blog gets) and I’ve realized a couple of things:
- I’m really good at setting goals that I never think about, ever again.
- … Nope, that’s it. There’s just the one thing. I like bullet points.
We had a rather interesting weekend, after an exhausting but ultimately satisfying month wherein I deliberately set my sights on NOT resenting all of the holiday fuss and expense and impositions on my time and waistline. Turns out I can generate all kinds of good, yule-tide ju-ju when I set my mind to it, even though I’m predisposed to Grinch-ism.
A little trivia about this blog:
- It started as family travel journal. Turns out, when you take a couple of kids around the world, you may leave grandparents skittish about the lack of daily contact, even if they weren’t terribly helicopter-y before you talked about getting on a plane.
- It morphed into a sort of therapeutic confession of my parental shortcomings.
- It may have been envisioned, at one time, as a book platform.
- Most days it’s just me, procrastinating. Because sometimes more substantial writing projects are hard and kind of a drag and there’s a lot of self-doubt and introspection and who needs that kind of garbage, anyway?
Me. I need that kind of garbage. I’ve been neglecting this blog because I’m working on something else. I’ll bet you haven’t guessed, either, but it rhymes with …. with look and …. and hook.
… And that ‘something else’ may never see the light of day, which is hard for a blogger who’s used to immediate feedback regardless of how much whatever I’ve written stinks to high heaven.
So today, I’m back on the blog, taking a breather from 74,000 words of what could be the worst crap ever typed on a keyboard, to hold forth on this thing I’ve now done exactly one time, and not entirely to completion, and on which I am nevertheless an expert.
Ahem … blog versus book: a comparison.
“Don’t you just get more and more excited as it gets closer to Christmas?”
This was the start of a conversation over scrambled eggs yesterday, December-the-very-first, with our exchange student, Anna. Since I don’t talk much before 8 am, my only reply was to stare at her over my coffee mug, contemplating her sobriety.
Then I thought about the relationship I have the holidays, and how likely it is I’m gonna let this girl way down sometime in the coming weeks.
If you’ve been here for any length of time, you know I’m kind of a Scrooge. Want a refresher? Well there’s that tale about our amazing city lights tour – aka the Vomit Trolley Ride of 2004, or the one about how I only do Christmas crafts as an act of revenge, or there was that time I almost came to blows with Santa.
I haven’t any excuse for this hostility. It’s not that Christmas is a particularly dark time of year for me. I don’t get seasonal depression. There’s no trauma in my past. I’m just one of those people who really doesn’t go in for schmaltz. Or shopping. Or crafts, clutter, or empty calories for that matter (except beer, that is. And I do kinda dig spiked eggnog). I’m mostly just lazy. And a cynic. And schmaltz is way less funny than cynicism.
A little research and a consultation with our own kid who’s currently living among Anna’s people, confirmed that Danes do Christmas like they mean it, and Anna appears to be keeping pace with her homeboys. Before December was even upon us, she’d been to two tree-lighting ceremonies and a couple holiday concerts, and had a stack of homemade Christmas cards ready to send. The girl is ready for the holiday.
There had been an argument down the hall. Raised voices, a thump, then silence. Martha harrumphed and reached over Larry’s head. He flinched as she grabbed the key off the pegboard. She turned and pushed through the swinging door, disappearing around the corner before it could swing back.
Larry closed his binder after laying a pencil across the spreadsheet to save his place. He stood, pulling himself up at the counter. He propped a sign near the edge of the counter to face the lobby. It was a dog-eared, peeling from its cardboard backing. A cartoon bird was wearing a watch on one wing, pointing to it with the other, its beak open in a wide smile. “Be Back Soon!” in letters that always reminded Larry of that pig and his “That’s all Folks!” at the end of the cartoon.
Larry bent to collect items he’d stowed near his feet. He shuffled after Martha at half her pace. He could hear her before he turned down the hall and saw her, both feet planted at the second door down. She was knocking, her knuckles stern on the wood.
“Manager,” she said, her lips tight.
“Martha, there’s no one,” Larry said.
Four more doors down, there was the sound of a latch. Light threw itself against the opposite wall. Larry saw the shadow of a head. Right. They weren’t completely empty. Never completely.