Beginning last night at rehearsal, I find myself in the epicenter of a major full-circle experience in my life. I know, like life itself, that this experience is going to have a beginning, a middle and an end. And I want to be present for the whole thing, because this is major. This is the end of perhaps the most significant era of my life other than the child-rearing years.
I am grateful for the clues life sends me to alert me of the need to pay attention. Otherwise I could just blunder my way through my days and not take notice when notice needs to be taken. The "clue" that got me started on this particular episode of paying close attention was a name written on the top of a score to the unbelievable Brahms Requiem, which we began rehearsing last night. I was grateful that I found the box of music scores during my unpacking this past week, so that I could use the score I already had for this concert, instead of having to repurchase that which I already owned. . . which I have had to do for several other pieces this season. And given its age, the score for the Brahms is in pretty good shape. This is my third time using it, as it happens.
The clue? At the top of the inside front page is where I wrote my name for my first time using it. My name at the time was Ruth Smith. I never fail to be startled when I see that name. I was Ruth Smith for a mere three years of my life, after which I reverted back to, and will stay, Ruth Powell for the duration. I often forget Ruth Smith in my remembering of all the people I have been in my life. But she was the pioneer me who bravely went out into the world in a direction, by necessity, completely different than the one she had planned. I probably could write a whole book on the Ruth Smith years. I will spare you most of the details.
In a nutshell, upon graduating college with a Bachelor of Music degree, and armed with the significant backing of my college choir director who had pulled some very significant strings and got me admitted to one of the top graduate choral conducting programs in the country, for which I didn't even have to audition, I said good-bye to the love of my life (foolishly believing that there were many many loves of my life out there), and ventured to the way-station between college and grad school, my summer job at the National Music Camp at Interlochen, Michigan. During that summer between what should have been undergraduate and graduate schools, my dad pulled the rug out from under me. I don't think he intended it to be such a traumatic pulling. But nevertheless, his phone call, mid-season, to tell me he would not be providing the money for graduate school, left me in the northern woods of Michigan, with nothing for communication but a stand of phone booths in the main building, and without a Plan B. This was way before I knew enough to always have a Plan B. This was my first experience in "Things Don't Always Work Out The Way You Think They Are Going To!"
The Ruth Powell I am today would have said, "No problem. I will move to Madison, Wisconsin, the school where I have been accepted, get a job, look into financial aid, and SOMEHOW figure out how to get myself through this grad school experience." However, the Ruth Powell I was then, only saw that my world had been shattered. I was about to enroll in a Masters of Life program, for which no one had pulled any strings to get me in.
Set adrift for the remainder of the summer (I have woefully neglected to further explain my dad in all this. . . . and let's just say that looking back, I cannot thank him enough for what happened. It was supposed to be this way. It is absolutely critical in setting up my current Full Circle experience.), I had no choice but to set about doing my job as the High School Choir Manager. And I met George. A very nice guy, also had just graduated from Ithaca College in New York. He was on the stage crew of the venue where my choir rehearsed. We started dating. He was working that summer just before joining the US Navy Band in Washington, DC for a 4 year tour of duty that would involve playing only in Washington, DC. Looking back I see the Perfect Storm of alignments in my life. A cute guy, no agenda for the immediate future, and (I now know) most importantly. .. . WASHINGTON, DC!!! I had only read about DC and seen the pictures in my history books. As a little mid-western bumpkin, I could only dream of one day visiting Washington, DC! Looking back. .. . it could not have been easier to "fall in love" with nice guy George. He would take me to Washington, DC.
I'm going to skip a whole lot more details here and save them for the book (I'm only kidding about the book), but suffice it to say, I made a major life choice to be "in love" (which is a whole lot different from "falling in love" for sure) and to get a married, move to Washington, DC and start the circle moving. Ruth Smith.
I'll skip a bunch more details and jump right to my audition for the Washington Choral Arts Society, conducted by the wunderkind conductor, Norman Scribner. Right out of college I got into this group. In the first year, we sang with Leonard Bernstein! I was 23 years old and not only singing with Bernstein, but making a recording with him. I still have the "album" with a picture of the choir. Little minuscule, long-haired, unbearably young me in the front row, being conducted by Leonard Bernstein. One of dozens of "pinch me. . . . .no don't!" moments I have had with this choir.
The marriage to George did not take. But my love affair with Washington, DC lasted an adult life-time and continues to this day. When I went from teaching middle school music to elementary music, I had to drop out of the choir because I had no voice left at the end of the day. For the next 30 years. And then I got back in when I stopped teaching elementary music. Surely another miracle in my life.
So on my Brahms Requiem score last night was my former, long-forgotten other name. The marriage that might have been a mistake, but the move from Illinois that had been spot-on. In my twenty-something Ruth Smith handwriting was notated: April, 1975. My first Brahms Requiem with the Choral Arts Society. I had sung it once in English at Interlochen a couple of years previously. Also, written on the score is "April, 2005." The last time I sang it. The year I got back in the choir after my long hiatus. My reason for being brave enough to audition again for this group was that they were scheduled to sing the Brahms that year and I couldn't believe I might have another opportunity to sing it in the Kennedy Center.
And now. . . . . . Norman's last concert as Artistic and Musical Director of this group he founded and led for the past 47 years. A full-circle of the most profound kind. An unbearable full-circle. For him, for us, and for me. Because this is likely my last Kennedy Center performance as well. I'm not sure how all this "finding the new guy conductor" thing will turn out for me. But it certainly will be my last concert at the Kennedy Center with Norman. Norman, who has always been a big fan of me. Who used to call me to substitute in his small, paid church choir. Who has always told me how much he values my abilities, when, quite frankly, and totally honestly, I don't have any idea what he is talking about. I have always been self-conscious about my singing voice. I won't sing for anyone who asks me to. It's not a solo voice. It's a blending voice. But Norman likes it. And he has treated me as one of his top altos ever since I joined. I am tearing up just typing that.
Here comes the Brahms. For the third and final time with Norman and the CASW. 1975. . .2005. . . . .2012. Of all the things I have done in my life, the only thing that has transcended this experience with the choir was the raising of my children.
Thank you Dad, for kicking me out of the nest. Thank you George, for being there to rescue the falling bird, and then being gracious enough to let me go. This has been my bliss, from the bottom of my toes.
I don't know how I will bear this final run at the Brahms. But I'm all in.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
HALCYON
This is not the post I was going to write. I was planning a different one. I took notes and everything, last night as I waited to go on for our Fidelio performance. I should know better. I should know that if I'm planning far enough ahead to make notes, then I am certainly going to have a change of heart by the time I actually sit down with a computer. Maybe that other blog will get written some day. I have notes, after all. But not today.
I love the word "halcyon." If you are a loyal reader of this blog you know that that word appears every now and again. In my mind it is usually referring to the past. . . . "those halcyon days of yesteryear." And I haven't actually looked this word up, but I think it means an idealistic, rose-colored bubble. Now I'm going to look it up. See how I put myself on the line? Here, live and in person, I'm going to see if I was even close to being right! Talk about reality blogging! Of course, if it turns out I'm wrong, then I can just delete the previous paragraph and you would never know. So here I go to look it up. . . . . . . Just to keep in the spirit of "halcyon-as-yesteryear" I'm using my American Pocket Dictionary, and not my IPhone. Hmmmm. . . . let's see here. Well. . . .that just shows you how "pocket" this little dictionary which boasts 30,000 entries really is. It wasn't there! Which may mean I misspelled it. Now I'm intrigued. Off to find the IPhone. (Like I don't know where my IPhone is. . . . . . )
Okay. . .well you are experiencing my further education live and in person. I went to Wikipedia which kept referring to the bird, kingfisher. Then I was referred to Wiktionary (which I didn't even know existed). And again the bird stuff. But it also says : peaceful, serene, undisturbed, calm. BINGO!!
Not exactly my definition. . . and I'm big enough to admit it. But maybe in this day and age anything peaceful, calm and serene is a little idealistic and just a tad rose-colored. It's a stretch, I know. But the peaceful/calm thing is exactly what this blog is about, as it turns out.
So I come home today after 5 days in DC. GREAT days. I sang a world class piece with a world class conductor and world class orchestra in a world class venue. I had two spectacular 5 mile hikes around Burke Lake Park. I was able to see and share a meal with each of my boys, and I was able to see their respective girlfriends both of whom I adore. I celebrated St. Patrick's Day dressed in orange, and I took Dave out for his birthday dinner and he was kind enough to insist on sushi! I visited with some friends I had not seen in many years. All in all. . . . a banner 5 days.
On the way home today I stopped by Whole Foods to fill my fridge with yummy goodness for the next few days. And I got to come home! To my little house. And I unpacked the car, ran a load of wash, hung it on the line (making me, I'm sure, the only member of the performance last night to have their performance clothes hanging on a clothesline the next day, and also making me, I'm sure, the only person in my neighborhood to have performance black from the Kennedy Center hanging on the line). My two worlds in a delicious collision.
And then I sat on my new screened-in porch with a book that I bought at the library up in Springfield yesterday. . . . Steve Martin (yes, THAT Steve Martin) Shopgirl. A small novella that had me at hello. And as I sat on the porch in my bouncy chair that I bought with Joan at an antique shop in Danville, Illinois once, I realized the extent of the HALCYON place where I have chosen to live.
I have discovered that it is a wind tunnel for one. But today, there was no heavy wind, just a light breeze. But those mountains (in particular the mighty Humpback Mountain on the Blue Ridge Parkway) and the ever greening grass and trees. And THE BIRDS! I am the selected home, it appears, for quite a clan of mockingbirds. I realize mockingbirds probably are not considered to live in clans, but this seems to be a rather large family so I think it fits. They sing constantly, and it's beautiful. One of them spent the afternoon trying to fly through my bedroom window once I had raised the blinds. It's been many years since any living thing tried so hard to get into my bedroom, and I want to thank that mockingbird, male or female, for the gesture.
My back yard is peaceful, and serene, and calm and I'm completely smitten. I have a giant crush on my back yard! Who knew? Of course with all the wonderful birds flying about, chasing each other, singing and singing there is also the prerequisite evidence of habitation. My great Adirondack chairs that have been repainted to match the trim on the house and now grace the deck outside my bedroom will need to be scrubbed off before I can sit in them. Now, it appears, I may have to heed Joan's warning about one of the downsides of hanging clothes on the line. . . . bird poo!!!
But I guess I can't expect my birds not to poo now can I? So I will overlook that minor inconvenience and declare that "halcyon" does not necessarily refer to days gone by. Halcyon is here and now! Lovely!
I love the word "halcyon." If you are a loyal reader of this blog you know that that word appears every now and again. In my mind it is usually referring to the past. . . . "those halcyon days of yesteryear." And I haven't actually looked this word up, but I think it means an idealistic, rose-colored bubble. Now I'm going to look it up. See how I put myself on the line? Here, live and in person, I'm going to see if I was even close to being right! Talk about reality blogging! Of course, if it turns out I'm wrong, then I can just delete the previous paragraph and you would never know. So here I go to look it up. . . . . . . Just to keep in the spirit of "halcyon-as-yesteryear" I'm using my American Pocket Dictionary, and not my IPhone. Hmmmm. . . . let's see here. Well. . . .that just shows you how "pocket" this little dictionary which boasts 30,000 entries really is. It wasn't there! Which may mean I misspelled it. Now I'm intrigued. Off to find the IPhone. (Like I don't know where my IPhone is. . . . . . )
Okay. . .well you are experiencing my further education live and in person. I went to Wikipedia which kept referring to the bird, kingfisher. Then I was referred to Wiktionary (which I didn't even know existed). And again the bird stuff. But it also says : peaceful, serene, undisturbed, calm. BINGO!!
Not exactly my definition. . . and I'm big enough to admit it. But maybe in this day and age anything peaceful, calm and serene is a little idealistic and just a tad rose-colored. It's a stretch, I know. But the peaceful/calm thing is exactly what this blog is about, as it turns out.
So I come home today after 5 days in DC. GREAT days. I sang a world class piece with a world class conductor and world class orchestra in a world class venue. I had two spectacular 5 mile hikes around Burke Lake Park. I was able to see and share a meal with each of my boys, and I was able to see their respective girlfriends both of whom I adore. I celebrated St. Patrick's Day dressed in orange, and I took Dave out for his birthday dinner and he was kind enough to insist on sushi! I visited with some friends I had not seen in many years. All in all. . . . a banner 5 days.
On the way home today I stopped by Whole Foods to fill my fridge with yummy goodness for the next few days. And I got to come home! To my little house. And I unpacked the car, ran a load of wash, hung it on the line (making me, I'm sure, the only member of the performance last night to have their performance clothes hanging on a clothesline the next day, and also making me, I'm sure, the only person in my neighborhood to have performance black from the Kennedy Center hanging on the line). My two worlds in a delicious collision.
And then I sat on my new screened-in porch with a book that I bought at the library up in Springfield yesterday. . . . Steve Martin (yes, THAT Steve Martin) Shopgirl. A small novella that had me at hello. And as I sat on the porch in my bouncy chair that I bought with Joan at an antique shop in Danville, Illinois once, I realized the extent of the HALCYON place where I have chosen to live.
I have discovered that it is a wind tunnel for one. But today, there was no heavy wind, just a light breeze. But those mountains (in particular the mighty Humpback Mountain on the Blue Ridge Parkway) and the ever greening grass and trees. And THE BIRDS! I am the selected home, it appears, for quite a clan of mockingbirds. I realize mockingbirds probably are not considered to live in clans, but this seems to be a rather large family so I think it fits. They sing constantly, and it's beautiful. One of them spent the afternoon trying to fly through my bedroom window once I had raised the blinds. It's been many years since any living thing tried so hard to get into my bedroom, and I want to thank that mockingbird, male or female, for the gesture.
My back yard is peaceful, and serene, and calm and I'm completely smitten. I have a giant crush on my back yard! Who knew? Of course with all the wonderful birds flying about, chasing each other, singing and singing there is also the prerequisite evidence of habitation. My great Adirondack chairs that have been repainted to match the trim on the house and now grace the deck outside my bedroom will need to be scrubbed off before I can sit in them. Now, it appears, I may have to heed Joan's warning about one of the downsides of hanging clothes on the line. . . . bird poo!!!
But I guess I can't expect my birds not to poo now can I? So I will overlook that minor inconvenience and declare that "halcyon" does not necessarily refer to days gone by. Halcyon is here and now! Lovely!
Sunday, March 11, 2012
EXPLETIVE DELETED!
I knew this would be the hardest part. And I have blissfully not thought about it for weeks. . . .well, months. . . heck. . . years! The last vestiges of the downsizing. The hard stuff. The stuff that made the first cut when I moved out of my townhouse in Burke. The stuff that made the second cut when I moved out of my townhouse in Old Town. The stuff that made the third cut when I moved out of my place on Devils Knob. The stuff that made the fourth cut when I moved out of Coles Farm Road and into a storage unit.
And so here it is. All the hard choices rearing their individual and collective ugly heads. Requiring me to put my money where my mouth is. Are you really downsizing, sister? Or are you just making noise?
This is the hard stuff. So I thought I would let my blog be a place where I considered the pros and cons of a couple of items in an attempt to make the decision. Here goes:
Item #1
I know. A no-brainer, right? A plastic plate designed by my then 9-year-old first- born son, probably as a Mother's Day gift. So what mother in her right mind would ever part with this? It says "I love you" and everything. And there's a HEART!!! And that silly little goofy face that Chad always liked to draw on everything. . . shortly before he started drawing guns and explosions on everything. The peaceful years. Remember those????
But let's dissect this more thoroughly, shall we? Because comprehensive downsizing often requires that you put your heart on hold, because it is precisely that (expletive deleted) heart that has gotten you to the place where you can't open the front door but for all the junk! Well, that and a chronic case of procrastination, slovenliness, ADD, and depression. But let's just go with the heart thing for a moment.
The reality of this plate is that it was no-doubt made in school, at the end of the week on Friday. A Mother's Day project. It's practically a requirement in elementary school. So here's Chad facing the plate. In reality I'm guessing he's not thinking, "Oh I just love my mom so much. I'm so grateful for this opportunity to put down on plastic with Magic Marker all the feelings of a lifetime that I have for this angel in my life!" No. . . he's saying (even in 4th grade), "Are you (expletive deleted) kidding me? Another plastic item to decorate? Why aren't we out on the playground kicking a ball?" So he grabs his primary colors (guaranteed to not match any decor I will ever have later in life) and draws 4 hearts, a couple of flowers, and for good measure, a couple of those wacky signature goofy faces with the tongue hanging out. His teacher probably comes around and notices the very bare spot in the middle and asks Chad if he's going to fill that space also. He responds that, no, he is in his minimalist stage at present, and prefers to leave it blank. To which his teacher gently prods him to "at least say I love you" or he will have to stay after school to finish it.
That could very well be the story behind this plate. And I will never "serve cookies" on it because I haven't let a cookie across the threshold of my house in 15 years. And if I did, they would never make it to the plate anyway. I would have eaten the whole package right out of the box on the way home from the store. Homemade cookies? Are you kidding me? They were eaten raw before ever reaching the oven. I have ISSUES, okay?
But you can't give this to a thrift shop! Who buys a plate colored by someone else's kid? Probably the same people who buy the old family photos that you see in there. Do I throw it away? Do I recycle it? Do I stick it on a top shelf never to be seen again? Oh.. . here's an argument. Put it on the top shelf so that after I die, Chad, in going through my things sees it, and feels all warm and fuzzy because I kept it all these years. Reality check: Chad will NEVER go through my things upon my death. And if he did and did find it, he would say, "Oh, (Expletive deleted)! That figures. She put MY stuff way up here on the top shelf where nobody could see it!!!!"
And I promised myself that I would not keep anything ever again that would just be relegated to a top shelf never to be enjoyed. You see my dilemma?
Item #2:
Oh God. Another plastic Mother's Day gift. This one made by Chad the following year, when he was 10. This time it is a flower pot. I guess the teachers consulted with each other and made sure we moms got different plastic-ware as the years went by. So considerate!
Okay. . . primary colors again. Let's see how Chad's feelings for me evolved in the course of a year. This time I get a "#1 Mother"! Wow! An upgrade! There are two hearts. . . one with an arrow running through it. . .. .probably foreshadowing for the years to come. And off to the side, where you can't see it in the picture, is a nice sunshine! No goofy faces at all. And no guns or explosions either. This is progress perhaps, especially considering that he's getting older which historically does not usually translate into feelings getting warmer and stronger, child-rearing-wise. I expect he liked this project better because he only had to draw this design on a piece of paper and then it was magically turned into a flower pot when he wasn't looking.
So here's these two items. And I can channel my inner Marion Powell (my mother, who could part with any sentimental item known to man in one felt swoop, but could labor for hours about how to deal with the paper clip and rubber band she found in the bottom of a drawer) and just let these two items go. I could do that. I have given away LOTS of things that tug at my heart in the last 5 years.
But then I turn the plastic flower pot around:
Now here's where I'll have to interpret for you. On the right, under where it says 1988 Chad, is a picture of a glass of wine (I rather like the straw in the middle). And to the left is a pair of long, dangly earrings. This is Chad killing me softly with his magic marker. And it also could potentially be evidence for the prosecution in a child abuse court case. It rather suggests a parent who dresses provocatively and goes out to get drunk every night leaving her defenseless children alone.
But that's not what it means at all. And Chad and I both know it. This is where my not-so-little boy acknowledges on a plastic flower pot that he has seen me, has paid attention, and loves me. We had our moments together while my boys grew. I was a single parent and I overdid it on the feeling that maybe working multiple jobs all the time was the best way to go. I was stressed. But I was also goofy. And there was a lot of laughing and clowning around in our household. And I loved long, dangly earrings and made quite a production out of it when I got a pair or put a pair on. (I prefer hoops these days if I wear earrings at all. But this was another time.) I also loved having a glass of wine with friends. Something I still love. And I'm sure Chad knew I was really happy when I was with my friends. And it meant as much to him as it used to mean to me when my mother had bridge club at our house. It was the only time she ever smoked cigarettes. Something about the nicotine made her usually intense face soften up and become gentle. I remember that face vividly, even though that was a very brief time in my growing up.
So here we have it. Plastic-ware from my son. As Chad used to say in one of the wacky games he dreamed up for his radio show: The River? or Life?
Oh hell. . . . I'm keeping them both. Now on to the other nine millions items to go. (Expletive deleted!)
And so here it is. All the hard choices rearing their individual and collective ugly heads. Requiring me to put my money where my mouth is. Are you really downsizing, sister? Or are you just making noise?
This is the hard stuff. So I thought I would let my blog be a place where I considered the pros and cons of a couple of items in an attempt to make the decision. Here goes:
Item #1
I know. A no-brainer, right? A plastic plate designed by my then 9-year-old first- born son, probably as a Mother's Day gift. So what mother in her right mind would ever part with this? It says "I love you" and everything. And there's a HEART!!! And that silly little goofy face that Chad always liked to draw on everything. . . shortly before he started drawing guns and explosions on everything. The peaceful years. Remember those????
But let's dissect this more thoroughly, shall we? Because comprehensive downsizing often requires that you put your heart on hold, because it is precisely that (expletive deleted) heart that has gotten you to the place where you can't open the front door but for all the junk! Well, that and a chronic case of procrastination, slovenliness, ADD, and depression. But let's just go with the heart thing for a moment.
The reality of this plate is that it was no-doubt made in school, at the end of the week on Friday. A Mother's Day project. It's practically a requirement in elementary school. So here's Chad facing the plate. In reality I'm guessing he's not thinking, "Oh I just love my mom so much. I'm so grateful for this opportunity to put down on plastic with Magic Marker all the feelings of a lifetime that I have for this angel in my life!" No. . . he's saying (even in 4th grade), "Are you (expletive deleted) kidding me? Another plastic item to decorate? Why aren't we out on the playground kicking a ball?" So he grabs his primary colors (guaranteed to not match any decor I will ever have later in life) and draws 4 hearts, a couple of flowers, and for good measure, a couple of those wacky signature goofy faces with the tongue hanging out. His teacher probably comes around and notices the very bare spot in the middle and asks Chad if he's going to fill that space also. He responds that, no, he is in his minimalist stage at present, and prefers to leave it blank. To which his teacher gently prods him to "at least say I love you" or he will have to stay after school to finish it.
That could very well be the story behind this plate. And I will never "serve cookies" on it because I haven't let a cookie across the threshold of my house in 15 years. And if I did, they would never make it to the plate anyway. I would have eaten the whole package right out of the box on the way home from the store. Homemade cookies? Are you kidding me? They were eaten raw before ever reaching the oven. I have ISSUES, okay?
But you can't give this to a thrift shop! Who buys a plate colored by someone else's kid? Probably the same people who buy the old family photos that you see in there. Do I throw it away? Do I recycle it? Do I stick it on a top shelf never to be seen again? Oh.. . here's an argument. Put it on the top shelf so that after I die, Chad, in going through my things sees it, and feels all warm and fuzzy because I kept it all these years. Reality check: Chad will NEVER go through my things upon my death. And if he did and did find it, he would say, "Oh, (Expletive deleted)! That figures. She put MY stuff way up here on the top shelf where nobody could see it!!!!"
And I promised myself that I would not keep anything ever again that would just be relegated to a top shelf never to be enjoyed. You see my dilemma?
Item #2:
Okay. . . primary colors again. Let's see how Chad's feelings for me evolved in the course of a year. This time I get a "#1 Mother"! Wow! An upgrade! There are two hearts. . . one with an arrow running through it. . .. .probably foreshadowing for the years to come. And off to the side, where you can't see it in the picture, is a nice sunshine! No goofy faces at all. And no guns or explosions either. This is progress perhaps, especially considering that he's getting older which historically does not usually translate into feelings getting warmer and stronger, child-rearing-wise. I expect he liked this project better because he only had to draw this design on a piece of paper and then it was magically turned into a flower pot when he wasn't looking.
So here's these two items. And I can channel my inner Marion Powell (my mother, who could part with any sentimental item known to man in one felt swoop, but could labor for hours about how to deal with the paper clip and rubber band she found in the bottom of a drawer) and just let these two items go. I could do that. I have given away LOTS of things that tug at my heart in the last 5 years.
But then I turn the plastic flower pot around:
But that's not what it means at all. And Chad and I both know it. This is where my not-so-little boy acknowledges on a plastic flower pot that he has seen me, has paid attention, and loves me. We had our moments together while my boys grew. I was a single parent and I overdid it on the feeling that maybe working multiple jobs all the time was the best way to go. I was stressed. But I was also goofy. And there was a lot of laughing and clowning around in our household. And I loved long, dangly earrings and made quite a production out of it when I got a pair or put a pair on. (I prefer hoops these days if I wear earrings at all. But this was another time.) I also loved having a glass of wine with friends. Something I still love. And I'm sure Chad knew I was really happy when I was with my friends. And it meant as much to him as it used to mean to me when my mother had bridge club at our house. It was the only time she ever smoked cigarettes. Something about the nicotine made her usually intense face soften up and become gentle. I remember that face vividly, even though that was a very brief time in my growing up.
So here we have it. Plastic-ware from my son. As Chad used to say in one of the wacky games he dreamed up for his radio show: The River? or Life?
Oh hell. . . . I'm keeping them both. Now on to the other nine millions items to go. (Expletive deleted!)
Sunday, March 4, 2012
EXHAUSTION, THY NAME IS RUTH!
It's Sunday morning at 8:16 and I'm lying in bed blogging. I went to bed around 10 last night. That's 10 full hours of sleep and I needed it!
I have moved 4 times in the last 7 years. This takes Attention Deficit to a whole new plain. Please. . . . everyone. If you hear me even mention the idea of moving again you have my permission to throw me to the ground, beat me senseless and withhold chocolate until I come to my senses.
I am no spring chicken as it turns out. I think I'm the only person at 5 Star Health and Fitness who works out religiously 6 times per week. I probably should have my head examined for that alone. But then to mount the toting and sorting and shopping and disposing of, and deciding and kvetching that goes along with settling into a place that has room for about half of what is left in my life. Well. . . . "what was I thinking?" comes to mind.
Not that I'd do anything any differently. I LOVE my house. And armed with new strategies from my photographer-on-call I do plan to post some pictures in the near future. But let's wait for the kinks to be worked out. Might as well see the legitimate "after" pictures. I don't want any afters after this after. . . if you catch my drift.
This project has been pretty seamless in its execution. Almost no snags in the works. Now that I'm living here, there are still only two major debacles to be sorted out. One of my own making, and one not. I guess that's not too bad given everything I've heard from other people with building projects.
Debacle number 1 - the kitchen island counter top. NOT MY FAULT! Although Lowes (who I have loved working with in all respects except this one) tried very hard to pin this one on me. However, little by little they are coming around to the truth. And hopefully the counter top will arrive eventually once it's made the way it was ordered and paid for. A very nice man named Kevin is over there at Lowes giving it all he's got on my behalf. Oddly enough, the counter top company is named 5 Star! At this point I would kidnap a couple of their stars until I am satisfied.
Debacle #2 is the beloved and expensive bath tub. Oh my lessons are sometimes hard to learn. Here I was indulging in a bit of decadence when, as a lifestyle choice, I don't even believe in decadence. But nevertheless I scrimped on the floors and cabinets and fixtures and everything else to provide myself with a beautiful bathtub with a TV on the wall to watch. Never mind that I don't even watch TV now and I'm not even sure once this waterproof TV arrives that I'm even going to hook it up. But back to the bathtub. Caveat: Maybe you shouldn't order a bathtub online. Not that I didn't get great service, personal phone calls from the company, and arrival right on time (are you listening 5 Star Countertop Making guys?). And the bathtub is beautiful. Looks EXACTLY like the pictures. Fits EXACTLY into the space we left for it.
So the second day in the house I was DETERMINED to take a bath. Never mind that the new well was still spitting out bits of dirt. Heck, I'd swam in a lake before. How could this be different? What I had not counted on was how deep the tub was, and how much the fancy schmancy faucet they had sent actually encroached on the tub space itself. And the tankless hot water heater was just revving up and didn't like the grit in the water so was not producing the amount of water needed. I will spare you the sordid details, but let's just say I found myself in my birthday suit, submerged in a tub (and submerged is optimistic because there was, at best 3 inches of water) that was cooling off rapidly, very very slippery, very very deep, and the faucet made it impossible for me to get my weight distributed so that my arms, which are actually very muscular could lift my dead weight out of the tub. I was pretty much stuck in a slippery death trap with no way out. If the image of "I've fallen and I can't get up" is springing to your mind, I can't argue with that. So, with an enormous amount of mental energy spent flowing between becoming hysterical with panic and laughing uproariously at the predicament, I eventually arrived on the rug outside the tub, very thankful to not be injured. Not exactly the halcyon bath experience I had been hoping for. I dried myself off, renamed the tub "El Diablo" and vowed not to darken it's murky depths ever again or at least until I solved the problem. The next time Duncan the Builder came over I brought up the situation (I did NOT regale him with a re-enactment). We have decided that this is a multi-step process. 1. Get rid of the damn faucet that takes up too much room. Never mind that it is non-returnable and cost nearly $200. Get a basic kitchen faucet with a spout that will pivot out of the way. 2. Get the tape for the bottom of the tub that provides traction. Might put it on the rim of the tub as well. I'm an old lady. I get these services without being disparaged! 3. Consider putting the tub on a platform to raise it up a bit which will allow me to actually see out the windows that I insisted on having so that I could see out the windows. As it is, when I'm in there, I can only see sky. Which is probably a good place to be looking for one's last vision of life on earth.
So for the time being. . .no more baths in El Diablo. But he's nice to look at. Notice how now that the tub is evil, it has become a man. That is so wrong.
The good news is that I love my shower. I have not liked any shower facility I have had in the last 5 houses. Now I have a nice big, friendly, full of light, room to dry off, warm, lovely shower. SHE is lovely and will keep me clean until the bathtub recovers from his sex-change operation.
So. . . . island counter. . . bathtub. It's their fault that you're not getting pictures. It's 10 after 9, I think I'll get out of bed!
I have moved 4 times in the last 7 years. This takes Attention Deficit to a whole new plain. Please. . . . everyone. If you hear me even mention the idea of moving again you have my permission to throw me to the ground, beat me senseless and withhold chocolate until I come to my senses.
I am no spring chicken as it turns out. I think I'm the only person at 5 Star Health and Fitness who works out religiously 6 times per week. I probably should have my head examined for that alone. But then to mount the toting and sorting and shopping and disposing of, and deciding and kvetching that goes along with settling into a place that has room for about half of what is left in my life. Well. . . . "what was I thinking?" comes to mind.
Not that I'd do anything any differently. I LOVE my house. And armed with new strategies from my photographer-on-call I do plan to post some pictures in the near future. But let's wait for the kinks to be worked out. Might as well see the legitimate "after" pictures. I don't want any afters after this after. . . if you catch my drift.
This project has been pretty seamless in its execution. Almost no snags in the works. Now that I'm living here, there are still only two major debacles to be sorted out. One of my own making, and one not. I guess that's not too bad given everything I've heard from other people with building projects.
Debacle number 1 - the kitchen island counter top. NOT MY FAULT! Although Lowes (who I have loved working with in all respects except this one) tried very hard to pin this one on me. However, little by little they are coming around to the truth. And hopefully the counter top will arrive eventually once it's made the way it was ordered and paid for. A very nice man named Kevin is over there at Lowes giving it all he's got on my behalf. Oddly enough, the counter top company is named 5 Star! At this point I would kidnap a couple of their stars until I am satisfied.
Debacle #2 is the beloved and expensive bath tub. Oh my lessons are sometimes hard to learn. Here I was indulging in a bit of decadence when, as a lifestyle choice, I don't even believe in decadence. But nevertheless I scrimped on the floors and cabinets and fixtures and everything else to provide myself with a beautiful bathtub with a TV on the wall to watch. Never mind that I don't even watch TV now and I'm not even sure once this waterproof TV arrives that I'm even going to hook it up. But back to the bathtub. Caveat: Maybe you shouldn't order a bathtub online. Not that I didn't get great service, personal phone calls from the company, and arrival right on time (are you listening 5 Star Countertop Making guys?). And the bathtub is beautiful. Looks EXACTLY like the pictures. Fits EXACTLY into the space we left for it.
So the second day in the house I was DETERMINED to take a bath. Never mind that the new well was still spitting out bits of dirt. Heck, I'd swam in a lake before. How could this be different? What I had not counted on was how deep the tub was, and how much the fancy schmancy faucet they had sent actually encroached on the tub space itself. And the tankless hot water heater was just revving up and didn't like the grit in the water so was not producing the amount of water needed. I will spare you the sordid details, but let's just say I found myself in my birthday suit, submerged in a tub (and submerged is optimistic because there was, at best 3 inches of water) that was cooling off rapidly, very very slippery, very very deep, and the faucet made it impossible for me to get my weight distributed so that my arms, which are actually very muscular could lift my dead weight out of the tub. I was pretty much stuck in a slippery death trap with no way out. If the image of "I've fallen and I can't get up" is springing to your mind, I can't argue with that. So, with an enormous amount of mental energy spent flowing between becoming hysterical with panic and laughing uproariously at the predicament, I eventually arrived on the rug outside the tub, very thankful to not be injured. Not exactly the halcyon bath experience I had been hoping for. I dried myself off, renamed the tub "El Diablo" and vowed not to darken it's murky depths ever again or at least until I solved the problem. The next time Duncan the Builder came over I brought up the situation (I did NOT regale him with a re-enactment). We have decided that this is a multi-step process. 1. Get rid of the damn faucet that takes up too much room. Never mind that it is non-returnable and cost nearly $200. Get a basic kitchen faucet with a spout that will pivot out of the way. 2. Get the tape for the bottom of the tub that provides traction. Might put it on the rim of the tub as well. I'm an old lady. I get these services without being disparaged! 3. Consider putting the tub on a platform to raise it up a bit which will allow me to actually see out the windows that I insisted on having so that I could see out the windows. As it is, when I'm in there, I can only see sky. Which is probably a good place to be looking for one's last vision of life on earth.
So for the time being. . .no more baths in El Diablo. But he's nice to look at. Notice how now that the tub is evil, it has become a man. That is so wrong.
The good news is that I love my shower. I have not liked any shower facility I have had in the last 5 houses. Now I have a nice big, friendly, full of light, room to dry off, warm, lovely shower. SHE is lovely and will keep me clean until the bathtub recovers from his sex-change operation.
So. . . . island counter. . . bathtub. It's their fault that you're not getting pictures. It's 10 after 9, I think I'll get out of bed!
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