What are you doing for the eclipse? That’s the question of the day around here.
I’ll tell you what we’re doing … I don’t know what we’re doing.
Which means we’re probably doing nothing, if we haven’t made plans by this point. Depending on the the time of day, that answer could bring on either intense FOMO or a sigh of relief.
Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you know we have this thing coming up. August 21, right about midday, for about twenty-seven seconds (or thereabouts, I don’t really know and haven’t looked it up, but it’s not going to be long), the sun will be entirely blocked from the sky. Or almost entirely blocked, depending upon your vantage point.
And if you’re not already within the PATH of TOTALITY (which sounds like a perfect name for a disaster movie to me – I’ve used all caps to convey the proper gravitas), I’m sure you realize you’re going to get there only by navigating your way through a ton of traffic to a place where there’s no parking or toilets and probably the only things gracing the shelves of local grocery stores by the time you arrive will be single bladed razors and cans of Spam that expired in 2013.
Mike wasn’t super excited about renting a car for part of our trip to Denmark, and for a quick jaunt into Germany, but there were places we wanted to go where buying train tickets for the whole family was going to be super expensive, or our destination was out of the way enough, the train wouldn’t quite get us where we wanted to be.
By this point in our journey to visit the place our son had been living for a year and attend the wedding of a former exchange student, we’d experienced no real problems. None. No missed connections or lost luggage or screw ups with our Airbnb hosts.
Which made it the PERFECT time to put all marital and familial relationships to the test by having one us navigate while another drove (possibly illegally, we never really looked that up), and the rest rode in nervous silence in the back.
Or if not total silence, at least everyone tried to keep their startled screams and audible gasps to a minimum.
Saara gave Mike a quick and helpful tutorial about driving in her part of the world. It was basically pretty much the same as driving in the United States, she said, except with regard to stop signs.
“We actually stop at them,” she said. Which made us wonder what she thought we were actually doing at stop signs in our home country.
NOT stopping. Apparently.
We’re in the final stages of trip planning and last night Mike suggested renting a car and taking a road trip while we’re in Denmark. We could drive through a little town some of my ancestors are from. I can’t remember the name right now, but it starts with an H. And it probably has a lot of vowels in it.
… Which makes me wonder, not for the first time, whether poor Mike thinks it’s fun or exasperating to be married to someone with the memory of a goldfish. I suppose it could probably go either way, depending upon the conversation. I mean, he does repeat a lot of the same jokes. And I almost always laugh, which I think is the number one quality you should look for in a spouse.
One of my favorite quotes is that one about doing something every day that scares the beejeebus out of you.
I know that’s not the exact wording, and I’m sure there’s another quote that speaks to my being too lazy to look it up. In my defense, I did, once, and found something about it being falsely attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt. Ever since, I figure it’s fair to just express the sentiment in whatever way I want. And you can attribute it to Eleanor if you choose. Or me. Or Captain Kangaroo.
I don’t think either Eleanor or the Captain probably used the word beejeebus nearly enough for my taste, though.
Well, guess what? I’ve landed on something I get to do every day for the foreseeable future that accomplishes that, and I don’t have to think about spelunking or jumping out of a plane to keep the fear queue full.
I’ll get to the actual thing in a sec, but first I want to share my favorite mechanism to cope with the biggest fears I have that don’t incorporate staring out a Cessna door at 12,000 feet.
I think it would really be nice to have some notice when a panic attack is due.
Like something on my calendar, so I’d know, for example, that at precisely 4am Mountain Time this coming Tuesday I would wake up wondering how much longer we were going to put off replacing the broken microwave, followed by my letting brain wander down various other rabbit holes that have to do with what is otherwise broken or incomplete in my life.
I might try to get to bed a little earlier if I knew I had that 4am thing looming. Maybe decide to actually get up then, instead of laying there, staring into space. I could do some laundry or something. You know, multitask.
A friend of mine wondered on social media recently whether she was of an age to start feeling like a “grown up,” and whether the fact she doesn’t most of the time has something to do with not having kids.
“Does having children make you feel more adult?” She asked.
I’m guessing my friend also had one of these unscheduled appointments, recently.
As far as advice goes, I’m not ever going to be one to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do upon reaching a certain age. As far as I’m concerned, you should wear whatever makes you happy and comfortable. Whether it’s leggings, hoop earrings or hot pants, I don’t care. You should eat what you feel like, workout as often as it suits your fancy, and use the oxford comma or not according to your taste.
… Oh, wait. I will probably judge you on the comma use, but carry on with the other stuff.
But there is something I think anyone over a certain age needs to come to grips with: Selfies.
You guys. There is possibly no more distinct line of demarcation between the old and the young than the ability (or lack thereof) to take a decent self-portrait with one’s personal electronic device.
… Except for maybe the TV remote thing. But in the interest of being concise, we’re going to focus on the art of the selfie here.
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?