Sunday, March 25, 2012

"What do you want to do with this?"

Two months ago I received a statement from my 401K.   Since I left MCL in April, 2009, I have had access to that money.  It halved in value during the recession, and I also had been using it to cover D's debts, my tripled mortgage, and a joint lifestyle that was beyond my means.  In the past year the trickle of funds became a hemorrhage.  Now, it's almost gone.

I'm still unemployed and so is D.  My  unemployment runs out in June, and the vacation rental apartment is bringing in half what it did last year.  While I have cut travel and entertainment expenses by two-thirds, my mortgage cannot be reduced and I am paying over $600 a month in health insurance.

I face the truth:  I can no longer afford my home or my lifestyle.

To stave off foreclosure, I either need to find a new source of income or sell my home.  I cannot face the latter yet.  Since the job search is looking bleaker every day, I have to find income somewhere else.  I decide on more radical measures.  Although I've reduced my living expenses as far as I can and still remain married, I have one more option available to me:  I will rent my home, live in the vacation studio rental,  and downsize my possessions.

I start planning the downsize. Step 1 is a heads' up to family and friends.  Is there anything in my possession that they have coveted or treasured over the past few years?  It's theirs.  Do they know of anyone looking for a nice home, complete with live-in landlords and pets?  Bring 'em on.  Etc.

The support comes pouring in. I receive names of potential house-mates and professional estate sale managers.  I get offers of help, a breathtaking gift of money, affirmations, condolences, and advice.  I feel loved.  I close my eyes to the emotional reality of this process, and I dive in.  I tell myself that this is what I've needed for years, a chance to de-clutter and get out from under my possessions.  I have let the sheer mass of things and responsibilities overwhelm me, and nothing gets done.  Now I will be able to find what's left and spend my time productively.  Or so I hope.

The Master Shedroom
I begin a modest remodel to create a viable living space so I can continue to live in my home.  I locate a renter for the upstairs.  The revised plan is to live in the downstairs, sleep in the newly refurbished shed, and share the kitchen with the renter.  The downstairs bathroom now has a shower.

The downsize is a bigger problem.  D is a hoarder, and I am not far behind.  We realize that we cannot face the choices inherent in managing a moving sale, and I cut a deal with an estate sale professional.  For 35% of the take, she will take care of everything. We painfully decide which rooms will be off-limits during the sale and which large pieces of furniture will be sold.  She begins contacting dealers and valuing our possessions.  We start the even more painful process of deciding about the "little stuff."

From the start it's a nightmare.  There is so much.  I have lived here close to 20 years, Dave close to 7. The remodel is still happening, and that slows down the process of moving stuff.  We start piling things up, but I really don't want to handle it all twice, nor to live out of boxes.  I want to go through the house, choose what to keep, and put it all away in the non-sale rooms.  D wants to go through and decide what to toss, and what to sell.  It's a radical difference in mind-set, and our discussions are accompanied by bouts of frustration, anger, hysteria, screaming, and tears.  I won't say who provided which, but I do start making plans to be gone during the sale itself.

Although I am adamantly not answering D's constant question, "What do you want to do with this?" I cannot escape the reality.  I am doing more than selling off possessions.  I am jettisoning my life.  I have been a musician, artist, craftsman, traveler, reader.   Soon I will no longer have the means to be any of these things, or at least not at the previous level.  I am selling sheet music and CDs, instruments, darkroom equipment, frames, yarn, craft supplies, paper for origami, junk for "found-object" art, material and scraps, books, luggage, maps.  I have also been a friend, lover, daughter, sister, niece.  Everywhere I look I see gifts and memorabilia from these beloved people. Soon I will only have my memories.  Some of these things are worth real money, some only carry emotional value, but all are worth more than any price the professional will put on them.  Do I really want to trash my life?

I cannot be totally ruthless:  I put snapshots and letters into boxes which I stash in the attic and under the stairs.  Some day I will have to cull these as well.  But 90% of the rest must go now.  My wall space, closets, drawers, and table tops are going away, and I cannot store all the art, dishes, and clothing.

The last two weeks have been spent walking from room to room, sitting at dressers, piling things into bags and boxes.  It's a little schizophrenic:  in the rooms dedicated to the sale, I am bagging and tagging things I want to keep.  In the rooms that will be off-limits, I am bagging and tagging things I cannot keep.  D keeps forgetting which process goes with which room, and then he keeps forgetting that the stuff I'm leaving in drawers or stacking on surfaces is going into the sale.  He says, "What do you want to do with this?"  I say, "Put in the sale."  He says, "Who would buy that (paperclip, broken glass,  cord to lost electronic item)?"  I say, "That's up to the professional."  He says, "What do you want to do with this?"

I snap.  I don't want to do anything with "this." I don't want to sell my memories. I don't want to sell junk, I don't want to sell valuables,  I don't want to determine which is which.  I want to pack a small bag and walk away, move in with my cousin in London, curl up in a fetal position.  But, then I discover my expired passport.  If I had snapped two weeks earlier, I could have taken that escape route.  Now, I'm trapped in the U.S.  Besides, I don't really want to leave my husband.  I just want him to stop asking me, "What do you want to do with this?"

It's down to zero hour.  I have stopped talking about why we are doing this, why we need to let the professional do her job, why we cannot keep taking things back out of the sale.  D has stopped saying, "But we might use this."  He snatches up one last pile of games he cannot bear to lose, and finally he's done.  I wander around the rooms, looking for the mates to 4 shoes.  I cannot find them, and I hope they have not been swallowed up by the bags that are in the dumpster I've rented.  I do find D's "Rogowski box," a handcrafted wooden piece of art, given to him for his first wedding, and I rescue it.  I know this should not be in the sale.  But there is so much else.  Did anything else inadvertently make its way to the sale tables?   Conversely, is there anything else in the off-limits room that could be sold?   I decide that this way lies madness, and I limp down the stairs (I tweaked my knee shoving heavy boxes with my foot.)


Now I am up in Port Angeles, staying with cousins while hordes of strangers tramp through my house, my life, and my memories, devaluing it all in the interest of getting a good deal or a quick sale.  I have been trying to not think about it, and my worry over Carbon makes that easy.  Her laryngeal paralysis kicks in during times of stress, excessive heat, or excitement, and she spent the entire drive up here panting without cessation, sides heaving, laboring after oxygen. I don't know which stressor is coming in to play, but I am facing the fact that yet another loss is imminent.  I sit with my arms around my sweet old dog, sobbing.  I don't know which loss I am weeping for,  but I do know that grief will not disappear with my things.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Balance

Sunday, 11 pm. 
I am procrastinating on my editorial duties.  The proof is sitting in my inbox, waiting for me to look for typos and sign off on it.  I believe this is called proofreading?  And I just don't feel like proofing or reading right now.  Everyone else is fast asleep, and I'm enjoying being alone.  Well, not quite alone.  Carbon follows me everywhere and is currently lying at my feet.  I have one foot propped on her, the other curled under me. Yes, I know this is bad for my knees, but years of being a tall person in a short person's furniture world have accustomed me to contortionist sitting, and now that's what's comfortable to me.

This upcoming issue is by and about new leaders.  Almost all of them describe their work as a balancing act, so I started looking for a cover image to illustrate that.  Google images is both a blessing and a curse.   It's amazing how many random images come up, even when you think your search term is precise:  Seesaw, Teeter Totter, Balancing Act, Balance, Free Images.  However, there are still hundreds that precisely fit my needs, and more that serendipitously take me into even more fruitful paths.  That's how I got from See Saw to Balance.

In fact, it has become increasingly clear that I am not the only person in need of balance.  From the old grand masters to modern photoshoppers, from yoga instructors to MBAs, the search is on.  Some claim to have found the way and are ready to teach you, while others are seekers, sharing their confusion. Count me in with the latter.

But the images!  The variety is fascinating.  I have a great fondness for the variations on the balanced rock theme:  some natural, some contrived, some shiny beach piles, some wind-eroded monoliths, all bringing that sense of calmness and order:  they should fall, but you have the utmost confidence they won't. 

A week ago I found the perfect image for the cover art.  A sturdily-built middle-aged woman in slacks and polo shirt stands, facing away from the camera, arms outspread.  Her hands appear to be holding the chains of a balance scale, and her feet are firmly planted, one in each dish.  She is suspended in mid air, holding herself up by the chains.  I proudly copy it to my PC, to join the more mundane images of seesaws and balances.   I find another image on a stock photo site:  a medieval jester balancing on two sword points.  It's amazing, but I find out that it costs actual money to use it.   Um, we're a volunteer-run, non-profit organization.  Free is what we want. 

This is when I realize that I did not make a note of the provenance of my fabulous balancing woman image.  I go back to my search engine, trying to remember what keywords I used the first time.  All my searching is in vain.  When you want to find any image, Google Images rocks.  When you want to find a specific image, it's less helpful.

3 days later
In between on call work, job applications, remodel, renter interviews, and estate sale prep, I have been sorting through Google Images.  I find every image I've found before, except the one I'm looking for.  I write to the owners of other good images.  Some ignore me.  The rest say, um, no, we bought that one.  My mentors all agree that we cannot risk copyright infringement.  As library wonks, it would just be wrong. I am getting ready to use a mundane silhouette of a "justice" scale.  Fortunately, wikimedia commons comes through for the guest editor (and I now have another resource to add to my arsenal.)  He finds three artworks, and we agree on one.   Tomorrow I'll be posting the final product, another online journal issue brought to completion.

Considering the balancing act that is my life du jour, this is an accomplishment indeed.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

A sore throat is not poetic

I grow old, I grow old.
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Over 30 years ago, I read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, and the words have followed me around ever since.  At the first reading, of course, I could not possibly understand what Eliot was going on about.  I had not met commitment-phobes.  I had not attended the empty cocktail parties, and I was at the beginning of my life's business of figuring out how to make a difference.  While I never thought I would live a life of passionate meaning, I did not fear that my beautiful life would be a conglomeration of dreary moments.  But now, I do fear.  I count the meaningless, passionless accumulations, and I wonder how I can get those mermaids to sing to me.

I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.

In fact, my life is measured out in pixels, not coffee spoons.  It's another age.

Today I woke up with an inflamed throat, an aching body, and a tottering step.  I got up to feed Carbon and cancel on the Wednesday walk, but then D made me go back to bed and brought me coffee, toast, and the morning paper.   The cat and dog joined me in their usual snuggly fashion.  But I couldn't stay down.

Next thing you know, I'm staring at the iPad screen, checking out the e-mail, applying for jobs, tossing a losing word at Lexulous.  Then I throw in the towel, put on a skirt, and join D downstairs.  And for the next several hours, I sit with the laptop.  Across the room, the 42" plasma TV screen is also going full blast.  My home is a pixellated hell.

I check Craigslist for convection toaster ovens and cooktops.  Troy and Brian check in:  time to tile the downstairs shower and finish work on the French doors.  The pilot light on the water heater has gone out AGAIN:  Brian relights it, but the theory is that, at long last,  it is giving up the ghost.  Several weeks ago I was wondering which appliance was going to go next.  Now I know.

In the rooms, the (workers) come and go, talking of....well, not of Michaelangelo.

D takes off for his Senior Forum for Collaborative Stories meeting. They are finding places to show I Am and facilitate discussions.  He, at any rate, is trying to make a difference.

Meanwhile, I finish the applications and sign into Spark:  Lnet needs an extra body to do some virtual reference.  As I try to help someone find a microfilm reader/printer, a window pops up.  I have 15 seconds to accept or reject the question.  It reads, simply, "help."  I ignore it, and it goes away, to return more emphatically:  "Desperately needing help with something."  It's not compassion that makes me accept it, but the fact that I am no longer helping anyone else.  But, the questioner has given up, moved on, or found the answer somewhere else.  Not my problem any more.

Thinking of the vagaries of computer-generated help, I decide to set up the application for Mortgage Assistance.  It's been 2 weeks since my last attempt, and I'm trying to not get my hopes up.  They say there are more openings this time around, but I've heard that before.

Okay:  all filled out, ready for me to hit the Submit button at zero hour.  I return to Spark and set up another Judge Judy.  Wow, this one features an earthquake!  It's like an original Star Trek episode:  the camera shakes up and down and people get up and start running for the doors while JJ dives under her desk. It doesn't seem real, but apparently it is.

Ooof! 10 minutes to go. I'm getting hungry, but nothing sounds good. My throat is still raspy.

Do I dare to eat a peach?

Here we go!  11:59.  The tiny heartless window pops up, informing me that there are no more funds for my county.  I expected it, since I'm early, and try again.  This time there are no funds AND the passwords don't match.   It's 12:00.  Again, no funds.  I am too exhausted to be furious.  Doggedly I try again.  And again.  And again.  And....I'm in!

Feverishly, I fill out everything I can, print up the 8 pages of information, checklists, official forms.  There is more to do but....I'M IN!

I get up to make chicken soup and settle down to watch TV and knit.  The workers continue to check in with me, and I hear the whine of table saws in the distance.  D calls several times on his errands.  I send more messages into the ether.  I read the responses.  My head still hurts.  Carbon and Simone joust for my attention, and I pet them.

The next thing you know, it's 4:30, the light is waning, the workers are winding up, and my day is over.   Finally, I turn off the TV and set aside the laptop.  I am too tired to pick up and I am confused:  where did this mess come from?  I just sat in front of glowing screens.  I made some soup and some toast, cut up an orange, peeled some garlic.  I gathered up the compost and stacked the dishes.  I brought in the mail.  WHERE DID THIS MESS COME FROM?

D blames me.  He is unhappy, because housework is his job, and I am finally holding him to it.   He says he wouldn't mind doing the work if I would just pick up after myself.  Sick or well, my natural environment is the barnyard.  Says he.

No, I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be! Am an attendant lord...

We are both searching for something and not finding it, and the small victories emphasize this.  Meanwhile, D finds consolation in the pixels that produce Hearts games, and I find consolation in my own pixels.  This, for example, found posted on Facebook.  Or this.  Or this.  There are some amazing things in the world.

Oy, now I have laryngitis. I think I'll take my cold to bed and hope for a more meaningful day tomorrow.  Or, at any rate, for a less raw throat.

And indeed there will be time.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Trees in early spring

Sunday was gorgeous, sunny and warm.  And, coincidentally, it was the day of the SE Artwalk.  So, we decided to go for an afternoon walk and look at art.  It's a little problematic.  While I didn't see much to tempt me into a purchase, I did see a lot to inspire me in my recycled craft proclivities.  However, I'm in the process of downsizing, so I shouldn't add to my possessions.  In fact, D took my bottle tops and wine corks to SCRAP just the other day.

H and S had a similar problem.  S found the PERFECT gift for L, but she is traveling around and living out of her car.  Even a journal made out of a cool ship/map book would take up too much space.  We did our best to convince S that L would want another journal for her trip, but to no avail.  S understands that true friendship means being thoughtful about not leading one into temptation.

So instead we focused on my second Chinuk lesson.  Turns out that the word for tree is essentially Big Stick.  And we saw a lot of those, glowing in the light of the spring afternoon sun.




Actually, those first two pix were taken at David Hill Winery a few weeks ago.  But the principle is the same.

Domestic Distractions

My excuse for lying on the couch instead of moving furniture is that I am knitting up a storm.  However, sometimes I get interrupted.




Saturday, March 3, 2012

Cat grooming

I love my Nioxin hair conditioner.  Karena ChopChop sells it to me at cost.  It's thick and has a tingly scalp presence, plus a lovely brisk peppermint smell.  I bring empty bottles to my appointments and come home with several month's worth of conditioner.  

Simone likes the Nioxin, too, as I was reminded today.  

It began with my morning routine:  Take a shower, brew some stiff coffee, toast a bread product, collect the newspaper, and lie on the couch to do the sudoku and crossword.  Carbon lies nearby, awaiting the crumb-covered plate.  (I know you should only feed the dog in the kitchen, but such discipline fell by the wayside years ago.)

Enter Simone:  a leap up the couch to perch on the back and look out the window.  I pat my stomach:  "Come on down, sweetie."  She puts her forepaws on the diaphragm area and turns her face towards me, eyes inches from my own.  I pet her, and she returns to the couch back.  Fickle beast.  I return my attention to the paper and she comes down to the pillows and couch arm behind my head.  She rubs her head against mine and then starts chewing at the scalp.  It tickles.  I giggle and tell her she's a crazy cat.

D thinks I'm the nutjob.

Painting by lamplight

I asked W about getting paint at cost, and he converted it into a trip to my shed to help me finish up the job.  We were using leftover bits, all mixed together, and he was dubious.  The color, he said, was the typical apartment oatmeal.  And it was as lumpy as oatmeal.  But, he got to work with the rollers, displaying the proper style (not just up and down) and telling me about his history as an expat painter in Canada.

I had asked that the fluorescent lights be removed:  they are fine for a carpenter's shed, but not for a living space. But the new fixtures were still sitting on the counter, so I hauled in some lamps from the living room.  They shed a mellow light that stopped around knee level.  We moved them around as we worked, and eventually I tipped one over, to the destruction of the bulb within.  Time to stop.

A few days later I came in to finish the job, clambering around on ladders to get the ceiling/wall edges  and go down the peaked center.  I don't do ladders, so I was clinging to molding and ledges with one hand and quiveringly applying paint with the other.

I think I prefer painting when I can't see what I'm doing.