I posted these to Facebook before going off to church to listen to the Immigration Social Justice Committee's presentation for GA. And now I'm going to go read by the pool.
3 domestic haikus
A quiet Sunday
Alone: no husband, no pets.
It seems I miss them.
My breakfast plate is
Covered with butter and egg.
Carbon would love it.
Her new humans say
Simone brought them a live mouse.
I'm glad she loves them.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Settling into a routine
This is my 3rd Sunday in ABQ. Since D is not here to galvanize me into motion towards 1st service, I spend the morning catching up on Facebook and e-mail and LJ. S has written some hilarious posts regarding Simone's first few days with them. I laugh out loud, but am not sure if my tears are from laughter or sadness. I miss them all so much, every day.
The littlest things trigger grief and nostalgia....
Yesterday the library had its bi-monthly Read to the Dogs program. On seeing the blonde woman walk by with the perky schnauzer, my first thought is, "Oh shit, my 10th day in training, my first hour as Person In Charge, and I have to deal with illegal dogs." I go to the desk to find out how this place handles service and non-service animals and then go looking for her. I finally run her to earth in the story-time room where 3 other dogs are also settled, and I realize it's legit. Huge sigh of relief: few things are more challenging than booting a self-righteous dog owner.
From then on my one goal is to get a chance to pet those puppies. I think back to Lisa, the golden retriever from the HWD RTD program: she would flop on her side and remain so for the entire 2 hours. Then she'd come into the staff workroom, owner in tow, and lean against our knees, encouraging our pats and pets and flopping again as we converged upon her. She would have stayed all day if we had let her.
The RTD coordinator comes to the desk to give us the totals, and I express my earnest desire to meet the dogs. She says sure, and I start telling J, my desk partner, about Carbon. My tears well up again, but I am steadied by J's sympathy and then a gorgeous springer spaniel comes up to me. Her owner says, "I hear someone wanted a pet?" and I am seated on the floor, cooing over floppy ears and soft fur.
You'd think being in a new place would lessen my yearning for pets and friends. After all, the routines and spaces they occupied are gone. I shouldn't have these deja vu moments of grief. Yes, a cottage cheese carton is a cottage cheese carton, but the rest is totally different. There should be no memory triggers.
Still, I do find that the new routines are not that new, and the new space is not that unfamiliar. We now have our second load of possessions in place, so there are familiar paintings and photographs on the walls, the bed and bedside tables are the same, we have the same dishes and clothes. The things we forgot (how can we live without the knife set? or the computer speakers?) merely accentuate the familiarity of the rest of our surroundings. My thoughts go backward, not forward, as I set up my home and routines. Yes, it's all one big memory trigger:
Sunday, church at 9:30, then an afternoon exploration. Monday, the day to take care of business. Tuesday through Saturday, work (the same routines and resources as any public library, just enough differences to keep me on my toes). Start the day with a half hour in the fitness center. Come home to a half hour at the pool. (Okay, these are new.) Help with dinner, do dishes, watch TV and knit. Go to bed and read.
Somewhere in the middle of this, I try to fit in e-mail and business, but I find myself avoiding both. The Internet is only bringing me grief right now: there's usually a message from someone telling me that I've dropped the ball or that I owe money or that I'm going to be sued (that's the upstairs renter), or that the house is falling apart or, or, or.... The fun posts on Facebook just make me aware of the fact that I am alone and broke, that I am disconnected from my joy.
However, there is hope. Today I squared up to the computer and found that I could deal with the ongoing tenant strife and move on to the good stuff. I didn't fight with D about money during today's phone call. In the past week I found myself enjoying my commute. The area is becoming familiar, the roads are not too crowded, and I like what I see. The Sandia foothills rise above me, beautiful against the big blue sky. The open spaces and parks and arroyos cut into the subdivisions and strip malls, reminding me that this is the high desert. I look forward to seeing the arroyos fill with water: Bear Canyon (Arroyo de Osos) is inches away from us, and I wonder if it can really contain a flash flood.
This is not home yet, but I can see the possibilities.
The littlest things trigger grief and nostalgia....
- I finish scooping out the carton of cottage cheese and look for Carbon: one of her joys in life was taking the carton between her teeth and carrying it to a special place, lying down and worrying at it until the last delicious sour milk drop was licked up. Then she'd leave it in the middle of the room for us to trip over.
- Last night I was reading in bed, and I felt so lonely without her warm bulk pressed against me, her snores and twitches testifying to a satisfying dream life. The loneliness is intensified because D is in PDX, finishing up packing and business, in between hosting CA friends and going wine tasting. Usually both pets would be keeping me company in his absence.
- Small creaking noises make me look for Simone, the usual source of unexplained sounds. I look for her to come in through the non-existent cat door, for her to be curled up on the couch when I get up, for her to join me during a bout of insomnia.
There's more....
Yesterday the library had its bi-monthly Read to the Dogs program. On seeing the blonde woman walk by with the perky schnauzer, my first thought is, "Oh shit, my 10th day in training, my first hour as Person In Charge, and I have to deal with illegal dogs." I go to the desk to find out how this place handles service and non-service animals and then go looking for her. I finally run her to earth in the story-time room where 3 other dogs are also settled, and I realize it's legit. Huge sigh of relief: few things are more challenging than booting a self-righteous dog owner.
From then on my one goal is to get a chance to pet those puppies. I think back to Lisa, the golden retriever from the HWD RTD program: she would flop on her side and remain so for the entire 2 hours. Then she'd come into the staff workroom, owner in tow, and lean against our knees, encouraging our pats and pets and flopping again as we converged upon her. She would have stayed all day if we had let her.
The RTD coordinator comes to the desk to give us the totals, and I express my earnest desire to meet the dogs. She says sure, and I start telling J, my desk partner, about Carbon. My tears well up again, but I am steadied by J's sympathy and then a gorgeous springer spaniel comes up to me. Her owner says, "I hear someone wanted a pet?" and I am seated on the floor, cooing over floppy ears and soft fur.
You'd think being in a new place would lessen my yearning for pets and friends. After all, the routines and spaces they occupied are gone. I shouldn't have these deja vu moments of grief. Yes, a cottage cheese carton is a cottage cheese carton, but the rest is totally different. There should be no memory triggers.
Still, I do find that the new routines are not that new, and the new space is not that unfamiliar. We now have our second load of possessions in place, so there are familiar paintings and photographs on the walls, the bed and bedside tables are the same, we have the same dishes and clothes. The things we forgot (how can we live without the knife set? or the computer speakers?) merely accentuate the familiarity of the rest of our surroundings. My thoughts go backward, not forward, as I set up my home and routines. Yes, it's all one big memory trigger:
Sunday, church at 9:30, then an afternoon exploration. Monday, the day to take care of business. Tuesday through Saturday, work (the same routines and resources as any public library, just enough differences to keep me on my toes). Start the day with a half hour in the fitness center. Come home to a half hour at the pool. (Okay, these are new.) Help with dinner, do dishes, watch TV and knit. Go to bed and read.
Somewhere in the middle of this, I try to fit in e-mail and business, but I find myself avoiding both. The Internet is only bringing me grief right now: there's usually a message from someone telling me that I've dropped the ball or that I owe money or that I'm going to be sued (that's the upstairs renter), or that the house is falling apart or, or, or.... The fun posts on Facebook just make me aware of the fact that I am alone and broke, that I am disconnected from my joy.
However, there is hope. Today I squared up to the computer and found that I could deal with the ongoing tenant strife and move on to the good stuff. I didn't fight with D about money during today's phone call. In the past week I found myself enjoying my commute. The area is becoming familiar, the roads are not too crowded, and I like what I see. The Sandia foothills rise above me, beautiful against the big blue sky. The open spaces and parks and arroyos cut into the subdivisions and strip malls, reminding me that this is the high desert. I look forward to seeing the arroyos fill with water: Bear Canyon (Arroyo de Osos) is inches away from us, and I wonder if it can really contain a flash flood.
This is not home yet, but I can see the possibilities.
Friday, June 1, 2012
"I can do not-beige," she says.
Day 5 in Albuquerque: I spend most of it trying to tie up loose ends, here and there. Unpaid bills, two sets of house utilities to manage, two cars to register, all types of insurance to adjust, a recalcitrant renter to deal with, a broken ice maker here, a leaking washing machine there. I can't handle all these niggly things long distance and simultaneously learn my new city, set up my new home, and commence my new job. I can feel a property manager in my future. Maybe D, maybe someone in Portland.
D is totally excited to be here. The first night he establishes a relationship with the manager of the local Smith's and gets a take-out Menu from Dion's Pizza. The next day is spent unpacking the truck and getting a day-bed/sofa for the living room (courtesy of a Craigslist perusal.) Wednesday has escaped my memory, but I know D and M go to the Dollar Store for things like brooms and laundry detergent. (They spend $43, which means they buy 43 items.)
Some money finds its way into our sadly depleted accounts so we are able to go out to 5 Star Burgers for M's last night in New Mexico. Thursday we tour down Central (the old Route 66) before taking him to the plane. A gent gives us his used parking ticket: it has 50 minutes left on it. He lets us know that the Nob Hill parking patrols are brutal.
We are there to check out Masks Y Mas, per my old friend J's recommendation. Central feels like a midwestern main street, ghost town variety: wide lanes, lots of empty parking places, lots of cement and barred, closed storefronts. No charming trees. No window-shopping pedestrians. No coffee shops with wi-fi. I am no longer in the green, hip, and trendy Northwest. This is a grittier, harsher place. The sun glares down on the dust and desolation. When we pass two men on the street and they turn back and follow us into the hat shop, I am wary.
None of this bothers D and M. We are early for the Masks shop, which doesn't open until 11, but D finds a boot shop and a hat shop and he happily chats with the owners and tries on their wares. The Buffalo Exchange is open, and M's new best friend Craig cuts out the middle man and sells him some Wrangler shoes from a bag of potential consignments.
I don't want to window shop. We need everything, but can't afford anything. I find contemplating these contradictions exhausting. Still, I am looking for something to screen the view of the parking lot from our patio and apartment windows. Curtains? Shoji screens? It needs to be something that leaves the sky and treetops visible.
We both want art for the bare walls, and something to sit on, but we know that next week a lot of things will arrive from Portland, and that we can and should live simply for the next 6 months. It's difficult to internalize that reality, partly because D is a bargain hunter and partly because I really miss our crowded funky 1892 farmhouse, all wood and craftsman touches, surrounded by raspberry canes and jungle. This apartment complex has modern lines and pseudo stucco walls. The rooms have white walls, thick beige carpets on the floors and white metal blinds on the windows. Counters are a light brown formica. The 9-foot ceilings and molding add a little style, and there are some funky angles, there's a lot of comfort, but there's not much soul. Hence, our dilemma. We want to do enliven our surroundings. When we finally make our way into Masks Y Mas, I focus on the distressed-wood furniture, and D focuses on the Che Guevara hats and Day of the Dead wall hangings.
We don't buy anything.
Today, A's friend H finally calls me. She had meant to be a welcoming committee of one, but she is exhausted by the end of the school year, and her mother-in-law recently passed. She is in hunker-down mode, which I can totally appreciate. That's where I'd like to be too.
We talk about getting together soon, and I say we can wait until later to discuss her favorite places to go and things to do. And then somehow I start talking about how beige this apartment is, both figuratively and metaphorically. This galvanizes her; next thing I know, she is planning to eat some breakfast and then dig up some plants for our patio. "I can do not-beige," she says.
5 hours later, I have a large plastic chartreuse pot on the patio, filled with tall purple hollyhocks, fuzzy yellow yarrow, and anti-bunny garlic. A rectangular stucco-orange planter is filled with succulents. Inside, the high wall opening above the breakfast bar hosts a hanging ivy plant, and a large multi-colored striped cup holds an aloe.
Tonight we go out to swim in the lighted pool. On the walk there, the air is stuffy and warm, but after a dip in the blue chlorinated water, the breeze feels like it emanates directly from the deep blue sky and gibbous moon, cool and invigorating. I walk home in my wet suit, dripping water into my shoes. As I change into a long T-shirt, I notice tan lines on my shoulders.
Now that my apartment is less beige, I could get used to this.
D is totally excited to be here. The first night he establishes a relationship with the manager of the local Smith's and gets a take-out Menu from Dion's Pizza. The next day is spent unpacking the truck and getting a day-bed/sofa for the living room (courtesy of a Craigslist perusal.) Wednesday has escaped my memory, but I know D and M go to the Dollar Store for things like brooms and laundry detergent. (They spend $43, which means they buy 43 items.)
Some money finds its way into our sadly depleted accounts so we are able to go out to 5 Star Burgers for M's last night in New Mexico. Thursday we tour down Central (the old Route 66) before taking him to the plane. A gent gives us his used parking ticket: it has 50 minutes left on it. He lets us know that the Nob Hill parking patrols are brutal.
We are there to check out Masks Y Mas, per my old friend J's recommendation. Central feels like a midwestern main street, ghost town variety: wide lanes, lots of empty parking places, lots of cement and barred, closed storefronts. No charming trees. No window-shopping pedestrians. No coffee shops with wi-fi. I am no longer in the green, hip, and trendy Northwest. This is a grittier, harsher place. The sun glares down on the dust and desolation. When we pass two men on the street and they turn back and follow us into the hat shop, I am wary.
None of this bothers D and M. We are early for the Masks shop, which doesn't open until 11, but D finds a boot shop and a hat shop and he happily chats with the owners and tries on their wares. The Buffalo Exchange is open, and M's new best friend Craig cuts out the middle man and sells him some Wrangler shoes from a bag of potential consignments.
I don't want to window shop. We need everything, but can't afford anything. I find contemplating these contradictions exhausting. Still, I am looking for something to screen the view of the parking lot from our patio and apartment windows. Curtains? Shoji screens? It needs to be something that leaves the sky and treetops visible.
We both want art for the bare walls, and something to sit on, but we know that next week a lot of things will arrive from Portland, and that we can and should live simply for the next 6 months. It's difficult to internalize that reality, partly because D is a bargain hunter and partly because I really miss our crowded funky 1892 farmhouse, all wood and craftsman touches, surrounded by raspberry canes and jungle. This apartment complex has modern lines and pseudo stucco walls. The rooms have white walls, thick beige carpets on the floors and white metal blinds on the windows. Counters are a light brown formica. The 9-foot ceilings and molding add a little style, and there are some funky angles, there's a lot of comfort, but there's not much soul. Hence, our dilemma. We want to do enliven our surroundings. When we finally make our way into Masks Y Mas, I focus on the distressed-wood furniture, and D focuses on the Che Guevara hats and Day of the Dead wall hangings.
We don't buy anything.
Today, A's friend H finally calls me. She had meant to be a welcoming committee of one, but she is exhausted by the end of the school year, and her mother-in-law recently passed. She is in hunker-down mode, which I can totally appreciate. That's where I'd like to be too.
We talk about getting together soon, and I say we can wait until later to discuss her favorite places to go and things to do. And then somehow I start talking about how beige this apartment is, both figuratively and metaphorically. This galvanizes her; next thing I know, she is planning to eat some breakfast and then dig up some plants for our patio. "I can do not-beige," she says.
5 hours later, I have a large plastic chartreuse pot on the patio, filled with tall purple hollyhocks, fuzzy yellow yarrow, and anti-bunny garlic. A rectangular stucco-orange planter is filled with succulents. Inside, the high wall opening above the breakfast bar hosts a hanging ivy plant, and a large multi-colored striped cup holds an aloe.
Tonight we go out to swim in the lighted pool. On the walk there, the air is stuffy and warm, but after a dip in the blue chlorinated water, the breeze feels like it emanates directly from the deep blue sky and gibbous moon, cool and invigorating. I walk home in my wet suit, dripping water into my shoes. As I change into a long T-shirt, I notice tan lines on my shoulders.
Now that my apartment is less beige, I could get used to this.
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