Today was the UU 5th/6th grade roller skating party. I've had to miss the last few ones, because of other commitments, but today was free, free, free. So, vaguely remembering past parties, I changed out of my sweater so I wouldn't overheat. I put money and ID into a pocket so I didn't have to mess with a purse, and drove off to Mt. Scott Community Center.
I've been there for swimming and water aerobics, but I had no idea where the rink was. Turns out, you go around back through the parking lot on the east side of the building, down a switchback ramp, and under the basketball court. It's a small rink, with waist-high walls surrounding it, and an aisle surrounding the walls. There are openings at intervals in the walls, only two of which are in operation. Short, narrow benches are in the aisles on the east and south sides, bathrooms and a big room on the north side, and a small lobby area with an empty pop vending machine at the east door. The floor is a shiny blonde wood, like a basketball court. Being in the basement, there are support posts at intervals down one side of the rink: they are colored navy blue and padded all around. The kids swirl past them and swing on them and huddle around them. Sometimes Cathy has to break up some sort of hugger-muggery, but generally the vibe is good-spirited.
I start out in the big room. It has a large window looking out onto the rink. They've set a table under the window, and parents have loaded it with chips, cookies, candies, fruit snacks, and water. I drop off my chocolate-covered ginger and make a note: there are Girl Scout cookies! Thin Mints to be precise. I plan to reward myself with them if I can stay on my feet for a few rounds.
It takes forever to get the skates on. They are short beige boots, tight around the ankle, laced up the front, with orange wheels and the big orange toe stopper that I've never been able to use properly. I'm a skate-into-the-wall kind of stopper.
I remember when I was in 5th grade, we had regular skating parties at the Rainbow Roller Rink. Each grade school was assigned a specific night in the month, and grades 3-6 went. One year at least 3 classmates had birthday parties there. It was one of the main social events, growing up. The others were basketball games and movies. Of course, high school was a different thing: we had cruising, the IV (Italian Village Pizza), private parties, going to the mall. But in grade school, the Rainbow Roller Rink was it.
The Rainbow rink was at least 3 times the size of Mt. Scott rink. It was an entire building: the end at the front had benches and rest rooms and a long counter where you got your skates and concessions. The rink had outer and inner circles, with a hand rail along the outer wall. That wall could be opened up and propped up on poles on warm nights, and you'd look out onto the fields: the rink was located at the edge of town. The floor a dull scuffed oak, grey-beige in color.
The skates were white for the girls and black for the boys, and they laced up like Doc Marten boots, with hooks instead of eyes.
The music was two decades old. I remember swinging down the rink to the sound of Tommy Roe's "Dizzy." It was perfect skating music. I remember sitting out the couples moonlight skate, when the lights were turned low and the disco ball came into play. Then back out again for the girls-only skate. And off for the boys-only skate. And out in the center for the hokey pokey and limbo (I was eliminated almost instantly.) It was all choreographed, even to the owner, dressed all in black, skating around the rink with the kids to slow down the pace and keep an eye on us. I was always impressed with the people who could skate fast, low to the ground, swinging one leg over the other around the turns, and with the folks who could skate backward. I could get a little speed on, but nothing fancy.
I was an innocent. I enjoyed the skating, but I was outside the whole social scene. It was the grade-school kid's version of the high school dance. There were assignations and dates and breakups, but not for me. I knew that there were heart-burnings and private stories, and some of the older boys would go outside for clandestine activities. I watched it and overheard conversations in the rest room, and then went back out for more skating.
Today is different, of course. Part of it is the attendance: it's a 2-1 ratio of kids and adults. The boys seem younger than the girls, and the social stratifications seem non-existent. There are some tyros, hugging the wall or skating hand--in-hand with parents. Others go off in their usual groups, boys and girls in separate cliques, but friendly together. No one does anything fancy. I talk a bit, but I want to get out on the floor.
I don't remember how to skate. I am afraid of falling. (The kids are not: they fall with abandon.) I hold onto the round gray metal railing at the top of the wall, but it's too short to be a comfortable prop. I pull myself around the rink. My shins are burning, my feet ache, my little toe is rubbing against the boot. I don't remember this. I have to sit down, so I perch on the railing at the corner, back wheels propped on the baseboard. The burning subsides, and I lower myself back to the floor. The Beatles are playing, and eventually the muscle memory surfaces through the aches and I start swaying back and forth in time to the music. I'm skating!
An hour later, though, I'm done. I'm sweaty and stinky, we've done the hokey pokey, and it's time to leave. I take off the skates, and my feet take on that floating feeling I remember from 5th grade: once the heavy skates are off, your feet feel lighter than air. Then you go out into the frosty air, heavy coat over sweaty body, walking home under the winter stars, crunching through the snow.
Today it was pouring rain, but somehow it felt the same, minus the innocence. And the stamina.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Well, I'm gobsmacked, too
Last week SOU hosted it's annual Jefferson County Scavenger Hunt. It's pretty cool. There are 2 levels, elementary and high school, and teams from the schools spend three days tracking down answers to tough questions. The hunt is not just online (one section has a "bring-in" component, another requires print sources.) It's not enough to get the answer, either. They have to supply the source, and often two sources are required. The kids really get in to it, which is also cool.
I was logged in to Lnet (soon to revert to its former name of Answerland) and had the fun of assisting three delightful students from Talent Middle School. The first required print sources regarding the Pacific Crest Trail. Apparently a segment that goes through Jefferson County is rated as "non-scenic." I'm sure I could have found an online review, but in the TMS library the pickings were slim. I sent the link to the PCTA online store, and suggested a tour through the camping and hiking books in the local library.
Next I listened to a 30-second audio clip of a jazz saxophone piece, alto at a guess, with a strummed background (oud? lute? guitar?). From that we are supposed to derive artist and title of song. I have no idea how to do that and provide source info as well. It reminds of the days people used to hum part of a tune and ask what it was. But at least then if it was in your aural memory you were off to the races.
Finally I dealt with the pet rock question: find a 1970's pet rock in it's original packaging, with the care and instruction manual. I sent a list of antique malls and thrifts stores in their area and wished them luck. They told me I was awesome.
So a few days later I am talking to W, the Scotsman from my oncall library gig. I tell him about the pet rock question, and he looks at me blankly. "What, they pick up a rock and draw a face on it?" I explain the phenomenon of fad marketing, and he continues to look at me in disbelief. He says, "That's one that never made it across the pond...is this for real?" I assure him it is, along with the trolls and Rubik's cubes. Those he recalls.
He shakes his head and turns back to the holds he was shelving. "Well, I'm gobsmacked."
Me too.
I was logged in to Lnet (soon to revert to its former name of Answerland) and had the fun of assisting three delightful students from Talent Middle School. The first required print sources regarding the Pacific Crest Trail. Apparently a segment that goes through Jefferson County is rated as "non-scenic." I'm sure I could have found an online review, but in the TMS library the pickings were slim. I sent the link to the PCTA online store, and suggested a tour through the camping and hiking books in the local library.
Next I listened to a 30-second audio clip of a jazz saxophone piece, alto at a guess, with a strummed background (oud? lute? guitar?). From that we are supposed to derive artist and title of song. I have no idea how to do that and provide source info as well. It reminds of the days people used to hum part of a tune and ask what it was. But at least then if it was in your aural memory you were off to the races.
Finally I dealt with the pet rock question: find a 1970's pet rock in it's original packaging, with the care and instruction manual. I sent a list of antique malls and thrifts stores in their area and wished them luck. They told me I was awesome.
So a few days later I am talking to W, the Scotsman from my oncall library gig. I tell him about the pet rock question, and he looks at me blankly. "What, they pick up a rock and draw a face on it?" I explain the phenomenon of fad marketing, and he continues to look at me in disbelief. He says, "That's one that never made it across the pond...is this for real?" I assure him it is, along with the trolls and Rubik's cubes. Those he recalls.
He shakes his head and turns back to the holds he was shelving. "Well, I'm gobsmacked."
Me too.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Yes, we're talking about hemorrhoids
Yesterday I was driving D and K home from the Blazer game, and we were listening to the sports network broadcast, which was re-hashing what they had already seen. It's always interesting and appalling to see how paid advertisements dovetail with the broadcast. It's a truism that sports events are supported by alcohol (mainly beer), cars (mainly trucks), and girls (mainly supporting the other items.) But yesterday I heard this: "This is something that everyone has and no one wants to talk about....yes, we're talking about hemorrhoids."
It took me a mile to stop hooting.
(So, do sports fans get this lil' problem more than other people? Is it from riding around in trucks, drinking beer?)
Then I started thinking about how far we have come.....or rather, how low we have fallen....since the days of my youth, when bras were worn outside the dress, Madge soaked nails in Palmolive, and the big personal hygiene product was something that promoted "freshness." It took years for me to understand these coy commercials, but now very little is left to the imagination.
Years ago, I read a James Thurber essay about his secret life of metaphor. He spent hours worrying about chance-heard phrases, imagining horrors that were never intended (e.g., Mrs. Harris, who was "terribly cut up" when her husband died.) I suppose today's children have their own areas of mystification, the elucidation of which marks the beginning of adulthood. And perhaps I should be glad that figuring out how hemorrhoids are cured is not part of that inscrutable process. But I am not.
While I am a big advocate for honesty and plain speaking, I find I still retain some glimmerings of....dare we say?....shyness. I am actually disturbed by the bluntness of today's commercials, by the no-holds-barred invasion of privacy. Is nothing off limits? Do I really need to hear about the side effects of various medications? Commercials, with their blaring intrusions into the program, hold enough horror for me, by their mere existence. And some are clever (at least for the first 100 viewings.) But these medical and personal hygiene commercials really do set the bar way too low.
In fact, this may be another sign of the descent of civilization. No, let's not talk about hemorrhoids.
It took me a mile to stop hooting.
(So, do sports fans get this lil' problem more than other people? Is it from riding around in trucks, drinking beer?)
Then I started thinking about how far we have come.....or rather, how low we have fallen....since the days of my youth, when bras were worn outside the dress, Madge soaked nails in Palmolive, and the big personal hygiene product was something that promoted "freshness." It took years for me to understand these coy commercials, but now very little is left to the imagination.
Years ago, I read a James Thurber essay about his secret life of metaphor. He spent hours worrying about chance-heard phrases, imagining horrors that were never intended (e.g., Mrs. Harris, who was "terribly cut up" when her husband died.) I suppose today's children have their own areas of mystification, the elucidation of which marks the beginning of adulthood. And perhaps I should be glad that figuring out how hemorrhoids are cured is not part of that inscrutable process. But I am not.
While I am a big advocate for honesty and plain speaking, I find I still retain some glimmerings of....dare we say?....shyness. I am actually disturbed by the bluntness of today's commercials, by the no-holds-barred invasion of privacy. Is nothing off limits? Do I really need to hear about the side effects of various medications? Commercials, with their blaring intrusions into the program, hold enough horror for me, by their mere existence. And some are clever (at least for the first 100 viewings.) But these medical and personal hygiene commercials really do set the bar way too low.
In fact, this may be another sign of the descent of civilization. No, let's not talk about hemorrhoids.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Gratitude
I've been musing a lot about negativity and gratitude. Doctors, inspirational speakers, and laymen all seem to agree that negativity can cause everything from heart attack to bad skin to a generally lousy life, while "attitudes of gratitude" can get you perfect health, wealth, and happiness, and maybe even turn back global warming.
I exaggerate, of course.
But why is it that when D is negative, he considers himself to be "injecting some reality" into the conversation, and when I am negative he wants to nominate me for Hyperbole Magazine's Woman of the Year? It's the nature of the beast, I suspect. Negativity is in the eye of the recipient.
Still, in the long run, I agree with the gratitude mongers. Even if it may not be reality, it is a lovely mindset to have. You see the best of every situation, you walk about the world in a glow of happiness, you are floating in the sea, there are no sharks coming up from the depths.....see there's the rub. How do you balance awareness with always looking on the bright side of life?
"Plan for the worst and hope for the best."
In fact, gratitude requires that awareness of the shark below.
So, when I got up this morning and found broken glass in the sink and the gas lit under a frying pan on the stove, I had several directions my mind could and did go. Oh my god, he could have burned down the house. How long was that on? Is this why the gas bill was so high this month? How often does he DO that? Why did he leave the broken glass in the sink? But I settled on, Thank God the burner was on low.
Is that gratitude?
I think so. For me, every impulse of gratitude arises from a knowledge of the flip side of the coin. I don't think this negates the attitude. I think good experiences are enhanced by knowing that things could be horrible but, magically, are not. It is common to say that life is a gift, but it is less easy to see the gift in every moment.
Right now for example: my toes are wiggling, I am typing words, my dog is lying next to me; there is coffee in the kitchen, knitting underneath me (I must really learn to pick things up before I sit down), the sound of the heater, the sky lightening outside the window. I can be grateful for toes that wriggle, a laptop, a brain that conceives ideas, fingers that can type, the ability to care for a pet, a house full of good food, the supplies and time and ability to create, heat, and light. Basics and some wonderful extras. Or, I can say, my toes are cold (I need to get my socks), why doesn't D bring me the coffee (he's so selfish: I make the coffee why can't he serve me?), Carbon's health is a constant source of worry (I'm a lousy pet owner), I don't have time to be doing this (I am disorganized and selfish), the heater is too noisy (I can't afford a new one).....
But I am grateful for a brain that works. Dammit.
I exaggerate, of course.
But why is it that when D is negative, he considers himself to be "injecting some reality" into the conversation, and when I am negative he wants to nominate me for Hyperbole Magazine's Woman of the Year? It's the nature of the beast, I suspect. Negativity is in the eye of the recipient.
Still, in the long run, I agree with the gratitude mongers. Even if it may not be reality, it is a lovely mindset to have. You see the best of every situation, you walk about the world in a glow of happiness, you are floating in the sea, there are no sharks coming up from the depths.....see there's the rub. How do you balance awareness with always looking on the bright side of life?
"Plan for the worst and hope for the best."
In fact, gratitude requires that awareness of the shark below.
So, when I got up this morning and found broken glass in the sink and the gas lit under a frying pan on the stove, I had several directions my mind could and did go. Oh my god, he could have burned down the house. How long was that on? Is this why the gas bill was so high this month? How often does he DO that? Why did he leave the broken glass in the sink? But I settled on, Thank God the burner was on low.
Is that gratitude?
I think so. For me, every impulse of gratitude arises from a knowledge of the flip side of the coin. I don't think this negates the attitude. I think good experiences are enhanced by knowing that things could be horrible but, magically, are not. It is common to say that life is a gift, but it is less easy to see the gift in every moment.
Right now for example: my toes are wiggling, I am typing words, my dog is lying next to me; there is coffee in the kitchen, knitting underneath me (I must really learn to pick things up before I sit down), the sound of the heater, the sky lightening outside the window. I can be grateful for toes that wriggle, a laptop, a brain that conceives ideas, fingers that can type, the ability to care for a pet, a house full of good food, the supplies and time and ability to create, heat, and light. Basics and some wonderful extras. Or, I can say, my toes are cold (I need to get my socks), why doesn't D bring me the coffee (he's so selfish: I make the coffee why can't he serve me?), Carbon's health is a constant source of worry (I'm a lousy pet owner), I don't have time to be doing this (I am disorganized and selfish), the heater is too noisy (I can't afford a new one).....
But I am grateful for a brain that works. Dammit.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
remembering warmer days
Having totally emptied the shed and scattered the contents about the house, I am back to the bete noir of decluttering: the office.
The knitting and craft supplies are re-settled elsewhere, but the desk and file cabinets remained piled high with papers and tchotchkes and other jetsam of the past year. Boxes line the wall, some empty, some sorted. Some plastic, but most are varying sizes of cardboard. Two upright vacuum cleaners block access to closet and desk, their attachments leaking out of nearby boxes. Another box holds files I organized 6 months ago but never consolidated into the cabinets or upstairs desk. Yet another box holds the papers and books I swept from the desk top a month ago. In front of the wardrobe/entertainment center are more boxes and the sliding plastic storage unit I dragged out from the back of the closet. (The other is still inside.) On the floor behind the storage unit, the wireless hookup lies on its side, blinking blue lights assuring me it's fine. It is tethered to outlets on opposite sides of the room and soon I need to do something about those trip-hazard wires.
And that's just my side of the room.
I decide to NOT tackle the papers this time. This time I'm going to do something that has visible results. I start with the boxes, emptying them into recycling or goodwill bags, breaking them down, stacking them into a larger box, getting them OUT of there. At the bottom of the storage unit, I find maps. Ah yes, the trip to Taos. The wine-tasting trip to Walla Wall. The Foundry Art Gallery. Walking maps of Portland (those should go into the studio.)
I give myself a shake and resolutely send most of them to the recycle bag. (But, I could turn them into wrapping paper! Make cranes out them! Make boxes!.....) I take the few trip memorabilia and open the big green box, ready to add them to it. Oh, there's the neat journal with the magnetic flap that M gave me. It would be good for the studio, too, but I probably have written in it.
Yes, I have: one page, apparently from a trip to Kauai.
Wednesday
Finally resting and not sniping. At the pool, lazing and watching the waves. Our move from 319 was pretty painless. D was out shopping for T's and trunks (the excuse was that he spilled red wine on his Ranch Chimayo T) I had packed lunch and organized the food and was just getting ready to go to the pool when the phone rang and Natalie @ the office gave me the word that rm 123 was ready for us - 2 hours before we had to move out. I carried a small load down to the office and was just @ the door when D called to me from the parking lot. We got the room open (walking a maze of construction) & decided to load everything else through the lanai door.
Ah yes, that's pre-knee surgery, when D couldn't handle stairs. He could handle waves though, and we had a lovely week. We snorkeled, I showed him Salt Ponds beach, we saw teen girls practice the hula for a competition, we took a trip past the NaPali Coast, G and L took us out to dinner....
I look out the window at the empty branches waving in the chill east wind, at the slushy snow, at the grey-white sky. I don't want to clear out the office, I want to go someplace warm and uncluttered, with blue skies, fluffy clouds, and sparkling waves.
This is why I never get anything done.
The knitting and craft supplies are re-settled elsewhere, but the desk and file cabinets remained piled high with papers and tchotchkes and other jetsam of the past year. Boxes line the wall, some empty, some sorted. Some plastic, but most are varying sizes of cardboard. Two upright vacuum cleaners block access to closet and desk, their attachments leaking out of nearby boxes. Another box holds files I organized 6 months ago but never consolidated into the cabinets or upstairs desk. Yet another box holds the papers and books I swept from the desk top a month ago. In front of the wardrobe/entertainment center are more boxes and the sliding plastic storage unit I dragged out from the back of the closet. (The other is still inside.) On the floor behind the storage unit, the wireless hookup lies on its side, blinking blue lights assuring me it's fine. It is tethered to outlets on opposite sides of the room and soon I need to do something about those trip-hazard wires.
And that's just my side of the room.
I decide to NOT tackle the papers this time. This time I'm going to do something that has visible results. I start with the boxes, emptying them into recycling or goodwill bags, breaking them down, stacking them into a larger box, getting them OUT of there. At the bottom of the storage unit, I find maps. Ah yes, the trip to Taos. The wine-tasting trip to Walla Wall. The Foundry Art Gallery. Walking maps of Portland (those should go into the studio.)
I give myself a shake and resolutely send most of them to the recycle bag. (But, I could turn them into wrapping paper! Make cranes out them! Make boxes!.....) I take the few trip memorabilia and open the big green box, ready to add them to it. Oh, there's the neat journal with the magnetic flap that M gave me. It would be good for the studio, too, but I probably have written in it.
Yes, I have: one page, apparently from a trip to Kauai.
Wednesday
Finally resting and not sniping. At the pool, lazing and watching the waves. Our move from 319 was pretty painless. D was out shopping for T's and trunks (the excuse was that he spilled red wine on his Ranch Chimayo T) I had packed lunch and organized the food and was just getting ready to go to the pool when the phone rang and Natalie @ the office gave me the word that rm 123 was ready for us - 2 hours before we had to move out. I carried a small load down to the office and was just @ the door when D called to me from the parking lot. We got the room open (walking a maze of construction) & decided to load everything else through the lanai door.
Ah yes, that's pre-knee surgery, when D couldn't handle stairs. He could handle waves though, and we had a lovely week. We snorkeled, I showed him Salt Ponds beach, we saw teen girls practice the hula for a competition, we took a trip past the NaPali Coast, G and L took us out to dinner....
I look out the window at the empty branches waving in the chill east wind, at the slushy snow, at the grey-white sky. I don't want to clear out the office, I want to go someplace warm and uncluttered, with blue skies, fluffy clouds, and sparkling waves.
This is why I never get anything done.
Closed communities
1/11/12
Yesterday I went to my first job as a substitute school secretary. Today was mainly spent in the waiting room of the cardiac unit of St. Vincent Hospital. The two days were eerily similar to my recent experience working at the mall, in that I was a participant in a system that was entire unto itself. I spent the day surrounded by a community of people with specific and clear roles. The outside world floats in, to be absorbed into the space, previous identities irrelevant to the role that was being played inside this system. Routines are mysterious, tools ditto: one fumbles about trying to make sense of the simplest things.
The school was the more disconcerting, because less familiar, system. My training was over a month old, and all I remembered was the name of the program I had to use: eSIS. I was fortunate, in that I was subbing for the part-time person, and the principal secretary was there with all her know-how and school savvy. While I waited for the tech people to call me back with passwords, I searched my notes for clues and watched L handle the constant stream of kids, teachers, and parents.
She knew all their names!
Late-comers were offered breakfast and a place to eat it, and then shooed off to class. Two students came in with attendance sheets, which were placed in front of me, but everyone else went to L, who dealt with bumped heads (we were out of ice) and broken belts and problem students ("just sit there and wait for Mr. F.") One girl delivered a "pretend letter," which was the teacher's version of a time out. L had her chose a book to read until she was calm and ready to return to class, but the girl was already very calm. "You're ready to make good choices now?" "Yes." "Okay." I guess I'll never know what that was all about.
The principal was in and out, doing observations. Nurse Bill was there for one of his two days. Several kids sat in a row, facing the front counter, waiting for him. One had possible pink-eye, the others just looked pale and tired. Nurse Bill was also the resident Spanish-speaker, which came into play several times. I don't know how they managed in his absence.
Various bells rang at various intervals, but no one in the office seemed to be tuned into them: they were for teachers and students. The phone rang incessantly. L was dealing with a frozen computer program, so I answered several times. I found myself reiterating, "I'm a sub, I don't recognize that name, can you repeat it?"
After 15 minutes of waiting for tech support, I called the substitute office and got...a sub. So, I left a message and finally remembered how to get into my PPS e-mail. Aha! My password info was there. I logged into eSIS and pulled up the training module and muddled my way through the attendance procedures. Then I sorted mail and filled the boxes. And my 4 hours were over, just like that. I walked out into the lovely bright noon sun, and it was like leaving a matinee. The show was over, and I was back in the real world. When I had arrived, the sun was barely up, busses lined the street, and streams of kids were being herded into the building. Now, the street was empty, I could hear the distant shouts of kids at play, and my day was half over. I was discombobulated, and it took awhile to re-acclimate.
Today was a repetition of that sense of alienation. The hospital is an even more closed system than a school, with lounges, cafeterias, magazines, games, and a battery of procedures and jargon. The elevators ding, the intercom sounds at various intervals, making mysterious announcements or searching for errant staff. There are exterior areas for visitors, and interior areas for patients, and closed areas for staff. The doors are carefully labelled to keep you in your place, but they are only randomly monitored, and not all desks are manned. There are littoral zones, where visitors and staff converge and the roles are less clear. There are even tiny suites for family members of critically ill patients. I remember when Dad was in the ICU at Iowa City. When I wasn't in his room, I was sleeping in a monastic cell, wandering the halls, finding a Chihuly sculpture. Occasionally I would overhear discussions that reminded me there was an outside world, but I wasn't watching TV or using a computer. I was just there.
Today was less stressful. G was not in the ICU. I was not in charge of administering this system or explaining it to others. I was there for W, and I already knew the ropes. As a visitor, once you enter a hospital building, you begin creating a home for yourself. You are going to be part of this system for awhile, and you want to blend comfortably. You have your knitting, books, phone, computer. You introduce yourself to the volunteer at the desk.
I've decided that hospital volunteers are cloned. They have middle-European accents, coiffed silver-gray hair, glasses, and skirt outfits with pastel cardigans. They are very conscientious in their duties, collecting names, offering pillows and blankets, finding people. This particular volunteer knew just where W was. She had staked a claim to the chairs and table by the window. The cardiac care waiting room is on the 2nd floor, and as I sat down, I noticed coins and a package of Orbis mints on the concrete ledge outside the window. This was a modular, hermetically-sealed building, and there was no way the coins could have been tossed out a window or dropped from above. The only possibility was that they were tossed up from below, close to 2 stories. Later I counted the coins: they totaled $8.54.
W had been there since 7 am, and it was now close to 10. Soon after our arrival the intern came with the good news that the procedure went well and once G woke up, we could leave.
I was there until 4:30.
Yesterday I went to my first job as a substitute school secretary. Today was mainly spent in the waiting room of the cardiac unit of St. Vincent Hospital. The two days were eerily similar to my recent experience working at the mall, in that I was a participant in a system that was entire unto itself. I spent the day surrounded by a community of people with specific and clear roles. The outside world floats in, to be absorbed into the space, previous identities irrelevant to the role that was being played inside this system. Routines are mysterious, tools ditto: one fumbles about trying to make sense of the simplest things.
The school was the more disconcerting, because less familiar, system. My training was over a month old, and all I remembered was the name of the program I had to use: eSIS. I was fortunate, in that I was subbing for the part-time person, and the principal secretary was there with all her know-how and school savvy. While I waited for the tech people to call me back with passwords, I searched my notes for clues and watched L handle the constant stream of kids, teachers, and parents.
She knew all their names!
Late-comers were offered breakfast and a place to eat it, and then shooed off to class. Two students came in with attendance sheets, which were placed in front of me, but everyone else went to L, who dealt with bumped heads (we were out of ice) and broken belts and problem students ("just sit there and wait for Mr. F.") One girl delivered a "pretend letter," which was the teacher's version of a time out. L had her chose a book to read until she was calm and ready to return to class, but the girl was already very calm. "You're ready to make good choices now?" "Yes." "Okay." I guess I'll never know what that was all about.
The principal was in and out, doing observations. Nurse Bill was there for one of his two days. Several kids sat in a row, facing the front counter, waiting for him. One had possible pink-eye, the others just looked pale and tired. Nurse Bill was also the resident Spanish-speaker, which came into play several times. I don't know how they managed in his absence.
Various bells rang at various intervals, but no one in the office seemed to be tuned into them: they were for teachers and students. The phone rang incessantly. L was dealing with a frozen computer program, so I answered several times. I found myself reiterating, "I'm a sub, I don't recognize that name, can you repeat it?"
After 15 minutes of waiting for tech support, I called the substitute office and got...a sub. So, I left a message and finally remembered how to get into my PPS e-mail. Aha! My password info was there. I logged into eSIS and pulled up the training module and muddled my way through the attendance procedures. Then I sorted mail and filled the boxes. And my 4 hours were over, just like that. I walked out into the lovely bright noon sun, and it was like leaving a matinee. The show was over, and I was back in the real world. When I had arrived, the sun was barely up, busses lined the street, and streams of kids were being herded into the building. Now, the street was empty, I could hear the distant shouts of kids at play, and my day was half over. I was discombobulated, and it took awhile to re-acclimate.
Today was a repetition of that sense of alienation. The hospital is an even more closed system than a school, with lounges, cafeterias, magazines, games, and a battery of procedures and jargon. The elevators ding, the intercom sounds at various intervals, making mysterious announcements or searching for errant staff. There are exterior areas for visitors, and interior areas for patients, and closed areas for staff. The doors are carefully labelled to keep you in your place, but they are only randomly monitored, and not all desks are manned. There are littoral zones, where visitors and staff converge and the roles are less clear. There are even tiny suites for family members of critically ill patients. I remember when Dad was in the ICU at Iowa City. When I wasn't in his room, I was sleeping in a monastic cell, wandering the halls, finding a Chihuly sculpture. Occasionally I would overhear discussions that reminded me there was an outside world, but I wasn't watching TV or using a computer. I was just there.
Today was less stressful. G was not in the ICU. I was not in charge of administering this system or explaining it to others. I was there for W, and I already knew the ropes. As a visitor, once you enter a hospital building, you begin creating a home for yourself. You are going to be part of this system for awhile, and you want to blend comfortably. You have your knitting, books, phone, computer. You introduce yourself to the volunteer at the desk.
I've decided that hospital volunteers are cloned. They have middle-European accents, coiffed silver-gray hair, glasses, and skirt outfits with pastel cardigans. They are very conscientious in their duties, collecting names, offering pillows and blankets, finding people. This particular volunteer knew just where W was. She had staked a claim to the chairs and table by the window. The cardiac care waiting room is on the 2nd floor, and as I sat down, I noticed coins and a package of Orbis mints on the concrete ledge outside the window. This was a modular, hermetically-sealed building, and there was no way the coins could have been tossed out a window or dropped from above. The only possibility was that they were tossed up from below, close to 2 stories. Later I counted the coins: they totaled $8.54.
W had been there since 7 am, and it was now close to 10. Soon after our arrival the intern came with the good news that the procedure went well and once G woke up, we could leave.
I was there until 4:30.
The Shoemaker's Elves, revisited
Things have not been going well in the refgoddess universe. Savings are dwindling, jobs ditto. We are trying to downsize in every sense of the word, and the strain on the marriage is intense. However, I see definite signs of an upturn.....
Electronic Elves
On December 28, we drove out to Yakima to pick up my cousin and his girlfriend, do some wine-tasting, and have some good talk before they flew back to London. The plan was to stay at a Yakima motel and then hang with the folks on the 29th. However, it was dark before we got to Hood River, the rain was puddling on the highway, and the semis were spraying water up to the car roof. We stopped to feed ourselves and the car and to switch drivers. But even D was nervous, so we bailed at The Dalles. As I worked with the motel office, D started unloading the car, and he dropped the iPad in the parking lot. When I sat down to play Lexulous, I discovered that the background graphics were all catywampus, letters flickering, colours a wavering fluorescent green and pink. Most unsettling. A few weeks later, D took it in to Apple. Their solution: trade in for a refurbished one, for a mere $300. So, I resigned myself to using a less functional iPad, but it added one more thing to the list of Things Not Going Right.
Two mornings ago, I lay on the couch with my coffee and the iPad. I was wandering about the blogosphere, when I suddenly realized I was looking at pix that were clear and bright. I went back to the main icon screen: the background picture of Mahaulepu Beach was sparkling. The graphics were great, the usual icons were in place, but the screen protector was gone.
D swears he did not replace the iPad, and there was no time or money to do so. Also, he doesn't know how to synch it or replace the icons. So all I can think is that the Electronic Elves have taken pity on my distress.
Mystery #2
Earlier the same morning, I was dozing, cuddling with Carbon, trying to avoid the day. D came stomping in, asking where the camera was. I mumbled, "It's not by the kitchen door?" and he went into the usual diatribe: "a place for everything and everything in it's place...." and after some more fussing went off again to take pix with the iPhone (which does a better job and is easier to download anyway.) I gave up my ostrich attempt and went into carpe diem mode. As I was working in the kitchen, I noticed the camera hanging on the nail by the kitchen door, just where it should have been. D came in and I said, "you found the camera, huh?" He said, "You're kidding me!" Apparently he had found it, but not through searching. After he returned to his breakfast, there it was, on arm of his lounging couch in the living room. He assumed I had put it there, and, muttering to himself, had put it in the kitchen where it belonged.
Again, he swears he didn't find it and forget about it. So, again, it must have been Elves. Carbon and Simone refuse to get involved in our filing wars, and they were the only other beings in the house.
Good things come in threes, or, all things come to those who whine
Back before Christmas, a Missouri visitor to our town got lost driving down our street. She pulled into the driveway across from us and backed into our car, just as we were coming out to see the Christmas ships with G&W. Fortunately, we had already planned to use their car. Unfortunately, the insurance company is in Missouri. D has spent many frustrating hours talking to insurance, repair, and car rental businesses.
However, the stars finally aligned on Monday. We picked up the rental and dropped the Honda at the repair shop. Being ten blocks from the appliance store that L recommended (after reading my whine about Planned Obsolescence), we stopped by on the way home. It was a hole-in the wall, with two nice women in their 30s taking care of sales. It was busy, so there was time to wander about. Lots of white, lots of washers and fridges and ranges, very few wall ovens. We were enchanted by an ancient refrigerator with rounded corners, pull-up handles, and a round condenser unit attached to the top. Not for sale, though. They were also unable to supply us with what we needed (a 27" wall oven), but referred us to another store in NE Portland. D started phone negotiations while I went to work.
Yesterday we checked out Appliance City. D had picked up a phone call just as we arrived, so I went into door number one. I was met by a toothless elderly man who wasn't sure about inventory but was quite happy to walk me around. The place was crammed with appliances, but only saw one wall oven, dented on the top and too large to boot. So, we went back outside and walked down the street. They have taken over the entire block of shops but have not yet combined them inside. The outside is painted green and rustic red, and looks very clean and retro with its brickwork and large windows. The inside is dusty and grimy, appliances stacked in various stages of repair, dim fluorescents shedding a gloomy light.
Another toothless ancient came out from the back to assist us. They both agreed that we should check in with Michael, and I wanted to find D, so we went back to the first shop and found them both. Michael was the guy D had been talking with. He was middle-aged, with a round body, round balding head, and a matter-of-fact demeanor. We chatted about the models he had found for us and went with the Frigidaire, complete with convection oven, 90-day warranty, free delivery and haul away service. It costs what it would cost to repair the old one and is about the same age. It's also white, not black (a definite downside.) After I signed the paperwork I said, "Okay, now I'd like your opinion....does it make sense to buy a used appliance that is the same age as the old one?" I was harking back to the Planned Obsolescence rant. He seemed to think it was a wash, but since I was getting a better appliance that had also been tested in all areas, it might be a slighter better deal.
But, anyway, we have a new oven. Just needs to be delivered and installed.
So, we are climbing back into the light. We no longer see through a glass darkly. What once was lost, now is found. And, while I can't find a platitude for the oven and car, it will be nice to have those up and running soon. (Always look on the bright side of life.)
Electronic Elves
On December 28, we drove out to Yakima to pick up my cousin and his girlfriend, do some wine-tasting, and have some good talk before they flew back to London. The plan was to stay at a Yakima motel and then hang with the folks on the 29th. However, it was dark before we got to Hood River, the rain was puddling on the highway, and the semis were spraying water up to the car roof. We stopped to feed ourselves and the car and to switch drivers. But even D was nervous, so we bailed at The Dalles. As I worked with the motel office, D started unloading the car, and he dropped the iPad in the parking lot. When I sat down to play Lexulous, I discovered that the background graphics were all catywampus, letters flickering, colours a wavering fluorescent green and pink. Most unsettling. A few weeks later, D took it in to Apple. Their solution: trade in for a refurbished one, for a mere $300. So, I resigned myself to using a less functional iPad, but it added one more thing to the list of Things Not Going Right.
Two mornings ago, I lay on the couch with my coffee and the iPad. I was wandering about the blogosphere, when I suddenly realized I was looking at pix that were clear and bright. I went back to the main icon screen: the background picture of Mahaulepu Beach was sparkling. The graphics were great, the usual icons were in place, but the screen protector was gone.
Mystery #2
Earlier the same morning, I was dozing, cuddling with Carbon, trying to avoid the day. D came stomping in, asking where the camera was. I mumbled, "It's not by the kitchen door?" and he went into the usual diatribe: "a place for everything and everything in it's place...." and after some more fussing went off again to take pix with the iPhone (which does a better job and is easier to download anyway.) I gave up my ostrich attempt and went into carpe diem mode. As I was working in the kitchen, I noticed the camera hanging on the nail by the kitchen door, just where it should have been. D came in and I said, "you found the camera, huh?" He said, "You're kidding me!" Apparently he had found it, but not through searching. After he returned to his breakfast, there it was, on arm of his lounging couch in the living room. He assumed I had put it there, and, muttering to himself, had put it in the kitchen where it belonged.
Again, he swears he didn't find it and forget about it. So, again, it must have been Elves. Carbon and Simone refuse to get involved in our filing wars, and they were the only other beings in the house.
Good things come in threes, or, all things come to those who whine
Back before Christmas, a Missouri visitor to our town got lost driving down our street. She pulled into the driveway across from us and backed into our car, just as we were coming out to see the Christmas ships with G&W. Fortunately, we had already planned to use their car. Unfortunately, the insurance company is in Missouri. D has spent many frustrating hours talking to insurance, repair, and car rental businesses.
However, the stars finally aligned on Monday. We picked up the rental and dropped the Honda at the repair shop. Being ten blocks from the appliance store that L recommended (after reading my whine about Planned Obsolescence), we stopped by on the way home. It was a hole-in the wall, with two nice women in their 30s taking care of sales. It was busy, so there was time to wander about. Lots of white, lots of washers and fridges and ranges, very few wall ovens. We were enchanted by an ancient refrigerator with rounded corners, pull-up handles, and a round condenser unit attached to the top. Not for sale, though. They were also unable to supply us with what we needed (a 27" wall oven), but referred us to another store in NE Portland. D started phone negotiations while I went to work.
Yesterday we checked out Appliance City. D had picked up a phone call just as we arrived, so I went into door number one. I was met by a toothless elderly man who wasn't sure about inventory but was quite happy to walk me around. The place was crammed with appliances, but only saw one wall oven, dented on the top and too large to boot. So, we went back outside and walked down the street. They have taken over the entire block of shops but have not yet combined them inside. The outside is painted green and rustic red, and looks very clean and retro with its brickwork and large windows. The inside is dusty and grimy, appliances stacked in various stages of repair, dim fluorescents shedding a gloomy light.
Another toothless ancient came out from the back to assist us. They both agreed that we should check in with Michael, and I wanted to find D, so we went back to the first shop and found them both. Michael was the guy D had been talking with. He was middle-aged, with a round body, round balding head, and a matter-of-fact demeanor. We chatted about the models he had found for us and went with the Frigidaire, complete with convection oven, 90-day warranty, free delivery and haul away service. It costs what it would cost to repair the old one and is about the same age. It's also white, not black (a definite downside.) After I signed the paperwork I said, "Okay, now I'd like your opinion....does it make sense to buy a used appliance that is the same age as the old one?" I was harking back to the Planned Obsolescence rant. He seemed to think it was a wash, but since I was getting a better appliance that had also been tested in all areas, it might be a slighter better deal.
But, anyway, we have a new oven. Just needs to be delivered and installed.
So, we are climbing back into the light. We no longer see through a glass darkly. What once was lost, now is found. And, while I can't find a platitude for the oven and car, it will be nice to have those up and running soon. (Always look on the bright side of life.)
Monday, January 16, 2012
winter haiku
No one wanted to
Discuss Jesus' nature, so
We cut out snowflakes
They stand out of doors
In shirtsleeves, looking up at
Fluffy falling flakes.
I think I'll surprise
Her with a walk in the snow,
Followed by cuddling.
3 Haiku for a failed domestic diva
After expending
Much angst and cash, the oven
Still does not work.
My makeshift repair
On the recliner pulley
Is unravelling.
The tree sits, naked,
In the corner. Now for the
Trip to the attic.
Random haiku
A strong east wind blows,
And puddles have iced over.
They crunch at my feet.
They crunch at my feet.
A smoker squats by
The bus stop. A jogger runs past.
I'm getting donuts.
I look out through my
Bedside window. There is frost
On the leaf-strewn roof.
We pulled the Christmas
Boxes from the attic. He's
Wearing the antlers.
Take turkey carcase;
Add water, veggies, spices;
Simmer 'til bedtime.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Rampant consumerism
We all know about planned obsolescence, but why does the plan always come to fruition when we can least afford it?
Last month, in a fit of Christmas generosity, I caved to clever marketing and the pleas of my spouse and purchased a new dishwasher. I have to admit, it's nice to take glasses out of the dishwasher and have them sparkling and clear, instead of cloudy and covered in gritty orts. And I appreciate the kindness of R, who took his skills out of retirement and lay scrunched into the tiny space in front of the washer, wielding screwdrivers and other tools of his trade. Twice.
Then, the oven died on us. It was New Year's Eve, and we were planning for our annual New Year's Day open house. We had a 20-lb turkey waiting in the freezer. We had also promised cookie baking as part of the festivities (football in the studio, talking in the living room, games in the dining room, and baking in the kitchen.) What to do?
I called our handyman. His theory was that, since the broiler worked, the problem was the lower baking coil. I called around. Who is open on New Year's Eve? Not many businesses, and those that were did not have the part. The quoted price: $118. Yikes. I found an online quote for $93, and when I called the place that sold us the dishwasher, they agreed to match it. But it wasn't going to be available until the following Tuesday.
D's sister came through with her large counter-top roaster, and the turkey provided the best leftover-soup fixings ever. I made fudge and tried out the microwave convection oven for some chocolate chip cookies. It worked, but I didn't watch it carefully enough, and after a batch of very brown crunchy cookies, I decided to start up a jigsaw puzzle. We had plenty of goodies from our guests, anyway.
It's amazing how long you can go without an oven. I pulled out the electric bread-maker and finally managed to make good bread in it (still not as good as the Tassajara-style oven-baked, but better than edible.) I baked bread pudding in the microwave, and used the broiler to revitalize stale chips. D grilled and used the stove for his cooking. And we made it for another week before we finally installed the new coil. Happy ending? No.....the oven still did not bake.
We continued to deal for another week, when the next appliance died on us: our trusty microwave with the convection oven, purchased 6 years ago for $150 from Home Depot, the best deal ever. And there's a reason it was a good deal: the door push-latch had plastic components which broke and could not be repaired.
With D's mu shu chicken rotting in the microwave and no substitute for the oven, we finally had to take decisive action. R came over again: the microwave was above his pay grade, and the oven could have any number of things wrong with it: the sensor, the panel, or the board. He verified that the old coil was not the problem, so we took the new coil out to see if we could get our money back.
A repair dude came out and we had a lively conversation about planned obsolescence. He couldn't repair the microwave, either, and it was going to cost close to $400 to repair the oven. Because the oven was already close to 6 years old, it made more sense to buy a new one. As every salesman we visited said, the normal lifespan for appliances is 7-12 years, depending on the brand.
So, today we went out shopping on 82nd Avenue. Four stores and six hours later, we have one basic microwave, three quotes for free-standing ranges, and a great weariness. It's an overwhelming process, especially when you have to count your pennies.
I always knew color counted for a lot in price. From cheaper to more expensive, my options were white, black, or pewter/metal. Not too noxious, and I was grateful that avocado green and baby-shit yellow are no longer part of the appliance color palette. But I had no idea that built-in ovens cost more than free-standing ranges, flat-tops are more than back-splashed, and gas appliances are costlier than electric. Apparently I have expensive tastes.
The variety of options is staggering. I don't even need a stove top, but if I get a free-standing range, I'll have to cut out a space and replace the stove top I have. If I get an electric range, do I want coils or a glass stove top? If glass, do I want the variable size option? If I get gas, do I get sealed or open burners? Separate or solid grates? A grill option? A simmer and high heat option? And, for the oven....Broiler inside or underneath? Plastic or cloth seal?
I just want to bake cookies and bread.
Tonight I came into the kitchen. The electric bread-maker was humming through its second loaf. D was happily heating up sausage in the new microwave. I stood and looked at the gas stove top I have used ever since I bought this house, 17 years ago. That's 5 years over the maximum that appliances are supposed to last. Other than a broken igniter, which a handheld clicker can handle, it continues to work just fine. Can I trust it? I looked at the smooth lines of my counter, and I imagined it broken up by a new range, its back sticking up in the middle. D looked over at me and said, "What's wrong?" I said: "I don't want a range."
And we are back to square one. Except, of course, we have a new microwave.
Last month, in a fit of Christmas generosity, I caved to clever marketing and the pleas of my spouse and purchased a new dishwasher. I have to admit, it's nice to take glasses out of the dishwasher and have them sparkling and clear, instead of cloudy and covered in gritty orts. And I appreciate the kindness of R, who took his skills out of retirement and lay scrunched into the tiny space in front of the washer, wielding screwdrivers and other tools of his trade. Twice.
Then, the oven died on us. It was New Year's Eve, and we were planning for our annual New Year's Day open house. We had a 20-lb turkey waiting in the freezer. We had also promised cookie baking as part of the festivities (football in the studio, talking in the living room, games in the dining room, and baking in the kitchen.) What to do?
I called our handyman. His theory was that, since the broiler worked, the problem was the lower baking coil. I called around. Who is open on New Year's Eve? Not many businesses, and those that were did not have the part. The quoted price: $118. Yikes. I found an online quote for $93, and when I called the place that sold us the dishwasher, they agreed to match it. But it wasn't going to be available until the following Tuesday.
D's sister came through with her large counter-top roaster, and the turkey provided the best leftover-soup fixings ever. I made fudge and tried out the microwave convection oven for some chocolate chip cookies. It worked, but I didn't watch it carefully enough, and after a batch of very brown crunchy cookies, I decided to start up a jigsaw puzzle. We had plenty of goodies from our guests, anyway.
It's amazing how long you can go without an oven. I pulled out the electric bread-maker and finally managed to make good bread in it (still not as good as the Tassajara-style oven-baked, but better than edible.) I baked bread pudding in the microwave, and used the broiler to revitalize stale chips. D grilled and used the stove for his cooking. And we made it for another week before we finally installed the new coil. Happy ending? No.....the oven still did not bake.
After expending
Much angst and cash, the oven
Still does not work
We continued to deal for another week, when the next appliance died on us: our trusty microwave with the convection oven, purchased 6 years ago for $150 from Home Depot, the best deal ever. And there's a reason it was a good deal: the door push-latch had plastic components which broke and could not be repaired.
With D's mu shu chicken rotting in the microwave and no substitute for the oven, we finally had to take decisive action. R came over again: the microwave was above his pay grade, and the oven could have any number of things wrong with it: the sensor, the panel, or the board. He verified that the old coil was not the problem, so we took the new coil out to see if we could get our money back.
A repair dude came out and we had a lively conversation about planned obsolescence. He couldn't repair the microwave, either, and it was going to cost close to $400 to repair the oven. Because the oven was already close to 6 years old, it made more sense to buy a new one. As every salesman we visited said, the normal lifespan for appliances is 7-12 years, depending on the brand.
So, today we went out shopping on 82nd Avenue. Four stores and six hours later, we have one basic microwave, three quotes for free-standing ranges, and a great weariness. It's an overwhelming process, especially when you have to count your pennies.
I always knew color counted for a lot in price. From cheaper to more expensive, my options were white, black, or pewter/metal. Not too noxious, and I was grateful that avocado green and baby-shit yellow are no longer part of the appliance color palette. But I had no idea that built-in ovens cost more than free-standing ranges, flat-tops are more than back-splashed, and gas appliances are costlier than electric. Apparently I have expensive tastes.
The variety of options is staggering. I don't even need a stove top, but if I get a free-standing range, I'll have to cut out a space and replace the stove top I have. If I get an electric range, do I want coils or a glass stove top? If glass, do I want the variable size option? If I get gas, do I get sealed or open burners? Separate or solid grates? A grill option? A simmer and high heat option? And, for the oven....Broiler inside or underneath? Plastic or cloth seal?
I just want to bake cookies and bread.
Tonight I came into the kitchen. The electric bread-maker was humming through its second loaf. D was happily heating up sausage in the new microwave. I stood and looked at the gas stove top I have used ever since I bought this house, 17 years ago. That's 5 years over the maximum that appliances are supposed to last. Other than a broken igniter, which a handheld clicker can handle, it continues to work just fine. Can I trust it? I looked at the smooth lines of my counter, and I imagined it broken up by a new range, its back sticking up in the middle. D looked over at me and said, "What's wrong?" I said: "I don't want a range."
And we are back to square one. Except, of course, we have a new microwave.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Haiku for a failed domestic diva
After expending
Much angst and cash, the oven
Still does not work.
My makeshift repair
On the recliner pulley
Is unravelling.
The tree sits, naked,
In the corner. Now for the
Trip to the attic.
Several years ago, we did a minor kitchen remodel. We (or rather, our contractor) ripped out the old ovens in the pantry, installed the wine fridge in its place, and fixed the space below the stove to receive a new oven (replacing the old behemoth microwave I inherited with the house.) For the duration of oven-less-ness, we purchased a nifty microwave which doubled as a convection oven.
Much angst and cash, the oven
Still does not work.
My makeshift repair
On the recliner pulley
Is unravelling.
The tree sits, naked,
In the corner. Now for the
Trip to the attic.
Several years ago, we did a minor kitchen remodel. We (or rather, our contractor) ripped out the old ovens in the pantry, installed the wine fridge in its place, and fixed the space below the stove to receive a new oven (replacing the old behemoth microwave I inherited with the house.) For the duration of oven-less-ness, we purchased a nifty microwave which doubled as a convection oven.
The week before New Years, the lower coil of the oven stopped functioning. We (and our handyman guru) assumed the problem was with the coil, as the broiler still worked. On New Year's Eve day, I started calling around. No one had the coil, and it was going to cost $118. Oy. I looked online and got the super-cheap price of $93 to quote to the locals, and we ordered it for that.
On Tuesday D went to pick it up, and then the ugly process of replacing it commenced. Neither of us are in shape to squat on the ground and root around in the bowels of the oven, so we took turns. Since we had to turn off the electricity, our light came from a headlamp and a flashlight, held unsteadily by the partner as the floor person rooted around at the back of the oven. The element was held in place by two screws with a squarish hole: we had to search through the tips on the screwdriver kit for the right size and shape, and we had to figure out how to set the handle to turn the right way. It's the first time I had seen a reversible screwdriver handle, and I'm still not sure what the point of that is.
What with interruptions (why do people call the instant the breaker box is turned off?) and irritations, we did not find the proper equanimity to finish the job until yesterday. And, as I set about making bread pudding and D started defrosting the steaks, I proudly started the pre-heat function.
The bread pudding was baked in the tiny convection oven.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Domestic Routines as Distraction
Recently I have been thinking of two books I re-read often in my dewey youth. I actually downloaded one of them: Rose in Bloom, by Louisa May Alcott (she who ruined me for life, taking the impressionable young creative and turning her into one who finds more value in serving others than serving her art, a la Jo March.) The other is Little Town on the Prairie, by Laura Ingalls Wilder (she whose family embodies all the pioneer traditions, from self-reliance to genocide.)
Today I figured out what they have in common. Besides depicting an idealized (i.e. simplified) version of family and society (and the female's place in it,) they also provide a blueprint for dealing with the pressures and trials of living in a less-than-ideal world. The technique is, in a word: distraction. And not just any distraction, but distraction via the domestic virtues.
Hence, when Laura's Ma and Pa take Mary off to college for the blind, leaving Laura in charge, she marshals her baby sisters into a week of spring cleaning. "It was amazing how dirty they got, cleaning a house that had seemed perfectly clean." When Rose's Uncle Alec is finally through the woods after his bout with malignant fever (and just what is that?), she and her aunts also fall into a spring cleaning frenzy, which leaves them afraid to move for fear of messing the shining order they have created. (Actually, it was probably the maids. But let's not quibble.)
So what is my problem? I got laid off a year ago. It was the perfect time to dive into de-cluttering activity, especially since it's something I have talked about for over 10 years. It would be useful: I need a space to work from home, I can't function in a mess, I want to create more spaces for airbnb rentals. It would be a distraction: I get tired of job-hunting routines, I get overwhelmed by financial woes, I get exhausted by emotional crises.
But, I am not made of the stern stuff of our fictional forebears. I can neither face nor focus on the large domestic activities. Instead, I putter in the kitchen, baking bread and pies and granola, spreading flour far and wide. I knit and watch Judge Judy, losing needles in the sofa cushions and piling balls of yarn in bowls and on surfaces. When I decide to organize the mountain of papers and books on my desk, I start folding boxes out of old calendars. Instead of de-cluttering, I am re-cluttering.
Perhaps it's because, deep-down, I resent those role models and the effect they have had on my psyche? In that case, it's time to emulate Jane Eyre, whose tale I have re-read more than the others combined. When she learns of her accession to fortune, she steals Hannah away from St. John to clean down Moor House. Hannah is charmed to see how jovial she can be in a house turned topsy-turvey, and it is delightful to see, after a few days, how order is restored to the chaos they have created. (St. John stays away in horror.)
Of course, it would be easier if I had a sudden accession to fortune.
Today I figured out what they have in common. Besides depicting an idealized (i.e. simplified) version of family and society (and the female's place in it,) they also provide a blueprint for dealing with the pressures and trials of living in a less-than-ideal world. The technique is, in a word: distraction. And not just any distraction, but distraction via the domestic virtues.
Hence, when Laura's Ma and Pa take Mary off to college for the blind, leaving Laura in charge, she marshals her baby sisters into a week of spring cleaning. "It was amazing how dirty they got, cleaning a house that had seemed perfectly clean." When Rose's Uncle Alec is finally through the woods after his bout with malignant fever (and just what is that?), she and her aunts also fall into a spring cleaning frenzy, which leaves them afraid to move for fear of messing the shining order they have created. (Actually, it was probably the maids. But let's not quibble.)
So what is my problem? I got laid off a year ago. It was the perfect time to dive into de-cluttering activity, especially since it's something I have talked about for over 10 years. It would be useful: I need a space to work from home, I can't function in a mess, I want to create more spaces for airbnb rentals. It would be a distraction: I get tired of job-hunting routines, I get overwhelmed by financial woes, I get exhausted by emotional crises.
But, I am not made of the stern stuff of our fictional forebears. I can neither face nor focus on the large domestic activities. Instead, I putter in the kitchen, baking bread and pies and granola, spreading flour far and wide. I knit and watch Judge Judy, losing needles in the sofa cushions and piling balls of yarn in bowls and on surfaces. When I decide to organize the mountain of papers and books on my desk, I start folding boxes out of old calendars. Instead of de-cluttering, I am re-cluttering.
Perhaps it's because, deep-down, I resent those role models and the effect they have had on my psyche? In that case, it's time to emulate Jane Eyre, whose tale I have re-read more than the others combined. When she learns of her accession to fortune, she steals Hannah away from St. John to clean down Moor House. Hannah is charmed to see how jovial she can be in a house turned topsy-turvey, and it is delightful to see, after a few days, how order is restored to the chaos they have created. (St. John stays away in horror.)
Of course, it would be easier if I had a sudden accession to fortune.
Learning Languages
Yesterday S taught me Chinook.
More truthfully, she taught me Chinook and ASL.
Actually, she shared a few words with me and told me I was killing fairies when I translated into English. I have a stick and a stone on my kitchen counter now: they were the props. The Chinook word for Stick is....Stick. The Chinook word for Stone is Stoon (very Nordic or Old English. Apparently the original Chinook language has been heavily influenced by English.) The ASL gesture for stick is forefinger and thumb of each hand held an inch apart, in a pre-grasping position. The other fingers are balled loosely into the palm. The tips of the fingers point to each other and pull apart, creating or drawing a stick as they move. The ASL gesture for stone is two loose fists, thumb outside. The curled fingers of the dominant hand land lightly but firmly on top of the non-dominant hand: a stone on a surface.
S is learning the language from native speakers at PSU because it is in danger of being lost. She is a little frustrated because people don't really care about learning the ASL. I found the inclusion of ASL both distracting and compelling. It's distracting, because I'm so used to dividing mind and body when I am learning something, and when learning is integrated I find it difficult to figure out where to put my focus. Also, when I reach information overload, it's a total overload. I remember in college, I used to study and write in the lounge of the Fine Arts building. When I couldn't take it anymore, I would run around the building and look for friends to distract me. It was an either/or thing: turn off the mind, move the body. Move the body, turn off the mind. (Maybe this is why I can't talk during sex?)
However, including ASL in the process is compelling for the same reason it's distracting: because it draws on muscle memory as well as mental memory. You have so many more hooks to hang your learning upon. And, it's a familiar method. When I learn music or play an instrument, it's a full mind-body experience. I am integrating words and notes with specific physical motions. As with language, the mental/physical integration is vital to the finished product.
I had thought that this comparison was less applicable to the the vocal instrument, but at this year's choir retreat we learned* to increase resonance and lessen fatigue by standing loosely and letting the head balance on spinal column. It was a bizarre feeling, because I am so used to tensing physically when I work mentally: I clench my jaw and hunch forward. At the computer, I assume the goose-neck posture so common today. I don't see a flaw in the product, but there's a definite flaw in the process. I get so weary, and my body gets repetitive motion injuries.
Still, it also seems necessary to separate mind and body, to focus on specific areas of the process. I plan to practice my newly-acquired viola da gamba (thanks, D and Reed College for arranging the rental!), and part of that practice will be a monotonous string-crossing exercise, purely for the sake of increasing muscle memory. The goal is to learn to hit the right string as I play. You need to be able to watch the music, not the bow, after all.
We have this conundrum, a version of the mind-body problem. Language and music are both communication tools. To learn them, we have to practice them. To get good, we can't just, as S says, throw a lot of processor space at them. To practice, we need to separate mind and body. To get good, we need to integrate. And, in the final analysis, we need to integrate with other people, which is probably why communication must be taught physically and learned from another person. If you learn from a book, or from old pictures (which is how many old instruments are reconstructed), you miss out on that integration. And, you probably miss out on some key information. So, how do you combine physical and mental, repetitive and generative techniques?
A favorite poem (The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart) and a compelling play (The Language Archive) both touch on these thoughts. But, in the meantime, I've already forgotten how to say, "What is This?" A final conundrum to puzzle over: do I try to learn many new things because I want to broaden my connections and do my part to keep culture(s) alive, or do I just want to avoid the tedious practice required to actually be good at a few?
*Body mapping techniques taught by Cynthia McGladrey
More truthfully, she taught me Chinook and ASL.
Actually, she shared a few words with me and told me I was killing fairies when I translated into English. I have a stick and a stone on my kitchen counter now: they were the props. The Chinook word for Stick is....Stick. The Chinook word for Stone is Stoon (very Nordic or Old English. Apparently the original Chinook language has been heavily influenced by English.) The ASL gesture for stick is forefinger and thumb of each hand held an inch apart, in a pre-grasping position. The other fingers are balled loosely into the palm. The tips of the fingers point to each other and pull apart, creating or drawing a stick as they move. The ASL gesture for stone is two loose fists, thumb outside. The curled fingers of the dominant hand land lightly but firmly on top of the non-dominant hand: a stone on a surface.
S is learning the language from native speakers at PSU because it is in danger of being lost. She is a little frustrated because people don't really care about learning the ASL. I found the inclusion of ASL both distracting and compelling. It's distracting, because I'm so used to dividing mind and body when I am learning something, and when learning is integrated I find it difficult to figure out where to put my focus. Also, when I reach information overload, it's a total overload. I remember in college, I used to study and write in the lounge of the Fine Arts building. When I couldn't take it anymore, I would run around the building and look for friends to distract me. It was an either/or thing: turn off the mind, move the body. Move the body, turn off the mind. (Maybe this is why I can't talk during sex?)
However, including ASL in the process is compelling for the same reason it's distracting: because it draws on muscle memory as well as mental memory. You have so many more hooks to hang your learning upon. And, it's a familiar method. When I learn music or play an instrument, it's a full mind-body experience. I am integrating words and notes with specific physical motions. As with language, the mental/physical integration is vital to the finished product.
I had thought that this comparison was less applicable to the the vocal instrument, but at this year's choir retreat we learned* to increase resonance and lessen fatigue by standing loosely and letting the head balance on spinal column. It was a bizarre feeling, because I am so used to tensing physically when I work mentally: I clench my jaw and hunch forward. At the computer, I assume the goose-neck posture so common today. I don't see a flaw in the product, but there's a definite flaw in the process. I get so weary, and my body gets repetitive motion injuries.
Still, it also seems necessary to separate mind and body, to focus on specific areas of the process. I plan to practice my newly-acquired viola da gamba (thanks, D and Reed College for arranging the rental!), and part of that practice will be a monotonous string-crossing exercise, purely for the sake of increasing muscle memory. The goal is to learn to hit the right string as I play. You need to be able to watch the music, not the bow, after all.
We have this conundrum, a version of the mind-body problem. Language and music are both communication tools. To learn them, we have to practice them. To get good, we can't just, as S says, throw a lot of processor space at them. To practice, we need to separate mind and body. To get good, we need to integrate. And, in the final analysis, we need to integrate with other people, which is probably why communication must be taught physically and learned from another person. If you learn from a book, or from old pictures (which is how many old instruments are reconstructed), you miss out on that integration. And, you probably miss out on some key information. So, how do you combine physical and mental, repetitive and generative techniques?
A favorite poem (The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart) and a compelling play (The Language Archive) both touch on these thoughts. But, in the meantime, I've already forgotten how to say, "What is This?" A final conundrum to puzzle over: do I try to learn many new things because I want to broaden my connections and do my part to keep culture(s) alive, or do I just want to avoid the tedious practice required to actually be good at a few?
*Body mapping techniques taught by Cynthia McGladrey
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