Sometimes I'm a domestic kind of chick

This morning we channeled the birds:  they were outside eating seeds and we were inside eating the granola that I made yesterday.  It was a lively scene out there:  close to a dozen western scrub jays dominating the feeders and intimidating each other.  But, there were other more interesting birds.  I have ID'd the ubiquitous and pushy western scrub jay, the ground-scrabbling hooded junco, stripy female house finch, red-splashed male house finch, flirty juniper titmouse, adorable mountain chickadee, plus a possible pine Siskin but probable yellow male house finch. I need a guru.

Here are yesterday's haiku on the subject:

Morning feeder watch...
The usual suspects and
One stripy chipmunk.

I put out bird seed.
Now there's a fox underneath.
I feel so guilty.

C informed me that this was NOT a Peter and the Wolf scenario:  the fox was seeking seeds, not birds.  He stood in the shade of the feeder, watching the house intently, and then nuzzled on the ground.  She's probably right.  He had rusty back and head, black under-hung mouth, and white chest.  He was very foxy!  Birds continued to swirl around the feeder, but the ground feeders had disappeared.  Eventually he took off through the scrub juniper, and I watched his movements, in and out of the trees, as he went up the hill.  His gait was not fast, but was very purposeful, a fox on a mission.

I am delighted to have provided some amusement for both E and me, but I also find myself in a sort of melancholy nesting mood.  This will be the first Christmas away from any family, and it's the first holiday season spent in someone else's home.  So much of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's involves food, family, and festive decor.  I have my own rituals too:  re-reading Greenwillow and The Christmas Carol, listening to Nutcracker and Messiah, singing madrigal-type carols (The Boar's Head, The Wassailing Song, The Holly and the Ivy) and other more melancholy songs (In the Bleak Midwinter, Coventry Carol.)   I usually make origami tree ornaments, cards, and wreaths, using materials I have at hand.  And, of course, I bake Spritzbakkelse and make lefse and fudge.

So, I find myself doing some of these things, to E's delight ("You are always creating things!") I am less pleased with the results, but the process is enchanting.  I love scavenging the yard for scraps of juniper, pinon, dried plants, etc.  Then, I sit amongst sappy, spicy-smelling clippings, wrapping them around and around each other, tying them off with yarn or ribbon or wire, adding spots of color and texture.  I made two wreaths a few days ago, without a form.  They are hanging from the outside house lamps, and are already sagging out of shape.  Today I clipped the dried flowers from a dead vase arrangement.  Taking the moldy stalks to the compost, I discovered two year-old wreaths.  I disinterred the metal frames from the grey-brown sticky pines and brought them inside to make a wreath for the casita and a wreath for M and C.  My guess is they will fall apart within 24 hours, but such is life.

I need red ribbon.
My hands are covered in sap.
I love making wreaths.

  

The Epod is looking festive, with the wreaths, a huge poinsettia I bought from C's school, some snowflakes in the window, some vases filled with juniper and pinon.  I've decorated the make-shift trees with ear-rings and origami.  E and I have been singing carols together, and it's cozy enough.  But, I miss the things I had back in my own home.  There's no ribbon, for example.  And no Oregon grape to add a shiny dark green holly-ish texture.  And, the huge grape vine wreath is no more.  I have no idea where the cookie press is.  The little angel chimes are in with all the ornaments, which D hopefully salvaged.  The ornaments were 30 years in the collecting, and I'll likely never see them again.  One of them was a mystery:  I found it when I was still living in the milk barn, in with the fir boughs and ornaments that I taped to the open stair posts.  It was a wooden dragon, painted green and gold.  In subsequent years, it hung from the center of my biggest wreath.  I still don't know who gave it to me.  I know I didn't buy it for myself. I know it's one of my favorite ornaments.

I miss my annual musings on the subject.  

I miss making presents for stocking stuffers.  One year I knitted little balls and filled them with rice and catnip for all the family cats.  They lasted 12 hours, which was just about right.

I miss playing music with my family, and singing carols with D's family.  I miss sitting on Santa's lap (R in his father's old red velvet Santa suit), telling him I was an excellent girl last year, and receiving my present.

I miss the domesticity of the season.

Domesticity in the mountains

A few days back, I wrote about the trauma of removing a squirrel from the Portland house. Now, I don't really believe in Bored Angels, but Something was clearly paying attention to that. How else do I explain the presence of a mouse in this house?

Yeah, I know, I live in the wilds, I should just be glad the foxes and mountain lions aren't besieging me. (To any Bored Angels....LA LA LA LA LA LA LA!)

However, it's always a little tricky figuring out an effective and sustainable way to deal with these issues. One point of living out here is to co-exist peacefully with the wildlife. Rodents in the house are a problem, though. There was a recently documented death from Hanta Virus in Santa Fe. C says that it's caused by exposure to mouse feces, and mainly affects people harvesting pinon: the mice have nests in the bushes. But, we have mice in the woodpile and they do get in the house, and we have to deal with them. The accepted method is a jug of water. This being desert country, the mouse is attracted to the water, falls into the jug, and drowns. C checks the jug (which lives on the kitchen counter in the main house) and tosses the mouse corpse out for the resident snakes. Or, in winter, the coyotes. So, a few days ago I sent this message to E and C (E being the house owner, and C being the Co-op expert on practical life skills.)

Thought I'd let you know, D saw a mouse running the perimeter of the living room. (Why do I never see these things?) I've put out a jug full of water, but so far there are no corpses.
Also, I've been hearing a knocking/rapping sound most mornings, but when I open the door I see nothing. So today I went around the side of the house and caught a glimpse of a woodpecker, pecking at the peak underneath the eaves on the west side of the house (above the door to "my" room.) It was huge, with speckled body and flashes of red. D said she saw a pileated woodpecker in the trees outside, so that's probably the same bird.
What shall I do? Is it causing damage, do you think?
 
C's Reply:
No damage by flicker/woodpecker. They are always around and create no damage -- they are looking for bugs and will roost each night under EB's eaves as they are deep and protective. They've been here for 7 years and can't do anything truly harmful. It's rather comforting to see them nestle in during cold weather. If they are primarily tan and have red underneath their wings, they're flickers.
Be sure to put the glass/ jug of water on a low bookshelf against a wall, with some way for a critter to climb up and do a swan dive-- a stack of books or something like that. It may take a few days but it should work
My reply:
Got it. Thanks for the reassurance. Are flickers speckled? Will check the bird book. Re: mousy... I haven't arranged the diving platform properly, and it's skittering around the bathroom, but tomorrow I'll put my engineer's hat on.

Of course, this was not the end of it. I arranged a diving platform of sponges and brooms in the bathroom and the next day I saw a mouse curled up in the jug. I was equally triumphant and dismayed: I so prefer the idea of a live trap.
A diving platform
And a pitcher of water: Non toxic mousetrap.
(I feel awful, though.)
A few hours later I nerved myself to deal with the corpse, and went into the bathroom, only to see it looking up at me, with its bright beady eyes and furry face. It looked like Ernest Shephard's illustration of the Water Rat.


I dithered a bit, and finally put the jug outside, tipping it over. When I next looked, the mouse was gone. I confessed to C, who said, "That's one lucky mouse." We both assume it will return, and I'll have to deal with it again. So, now the hunt is on for a deeper jug.

I told this story to S, who said they used a big plastic waste basket with 6 inches of water. Apparently, some time in the past, they found a mouse and put a yellow Sharpie dot on its forehead. The mouse, now named Yellow Head, continued to effect entry into the house and they continued to release it into wild until they finally found the entry point and blocked it up. As S said, "That was one useful mouse."

I don't think I have what it takes to do this.

Irritability

I woke up in Albuquerque and drove home in the dawn.  The sunrise was lovely further south:  feathery golden clouds outlining a sharp ridged blue-black mountain range.  Then the clouds got thicker, with wispy coverage down the slopes, and the mountain's outline went dim, merging into the clouds, which extended into the sky.  The rising sun kept climbing, trying to get above cloud cover, continuously edging it with gold, but finally the clouds won. By the time I reached home, we were socked in, the temp was 33 degrees, and the wind was whistling through the top story, where the windows are shut but not bolted.  (They will remain so until someone with a tall ladder comes by.)

This is fine with me:  I'm trying to take care of business in the house, and that bloody sunshine keeps dragging me outside.  Unfortunately, stormy weather brings out the worst in E.  "Don't you think we should bring in those chairs?"  "No, they've lived outside for 3 years, they are fine."  "But they'll get wet."  "And then they'll dry:  it just takes a short time."  "I think they should come inside."  "They are fine outside, there's no room inside."  "Just put them in front of the door."  "That's in your path to the bathroom."  "I'm going to bring in the chairs."

I put aside the crossword puzzle and bring in the chairs.  One is against a wall in the living area, the other in the shower part of the bathroom.  It actually looks okay, but I'll have to move it every time I take a shower.  And of course, there will be a chair shlep every time we want to sit outside.

Back to the crossword puzzle.  "We're running out of toilet paper."  "No, we have 8 rolls, I checked yesterday."  "We should get more toilet paper."  "We're fine for now."  "I guess E can buy some when she gets here."  "That's 8 days from now, there's no way we'll be using a roll a day."  "I think we need to buy more toilet paper."

To distract her from this topic, I set her up to read and reply to email.  That keeps her fairly occupied, with only occasional interruptions.  "I've lost everything I typed!"  "No, it's right there, see?"  "Oh, yes....but what's that?"  "It's the letter you're answering."  "Where's my letter?"  "Right there."

In between, I try to fix the cord to the Mac.  It is almost completely severed, and tape doesn't fix it.  So, I bring the laptop next door to recharge, and then start up the Dell.  And every time I try to open a site, I get the wheeling symbol that says nothing is loading.  I click on the reload button and go to the next site.  And click on that reload button.  And then back.  And then click.  And then close the window and try again.  And then click on the reload.  And....

I can feel my jaw clenching.  E gasps and calls my name, with a rising note of panic:  "I've lost the letter!"

At this juncture, a person with access to her wise mind would put on jeans and go for a walk in the now cloudless day.  But instead, I go into my room and start going through mail and papers and desk drawers.  I find a stack of things that need to be taken care of:  bills to pay or dispute, Cobra to be answered, the Sprint iPhone to be returned, receipts to be recorded and filed, tax info to process.

What have I been doing for the past month?  Clearly, not taking care of business.

It's all sorted and put away, still undealt-with.  E has successfully emailed her letter, and I'm trying to get motivated to do something productive or creative.  Or at least, non-irritating.

Being an Ostrich

I'm avoiding the computer, and I don't quite understand why, but I have some inklings. It's my main connection to the world outside my New Mexico life and it's also the main tool for organizing said life. Would I really rather just sit with my knitting and watch NCIS re-runs? Seems so. At any rate, the computer seems to have become my locus for ostrich behavior.

It's not as if I am avoiding everything. I've been here a month now. The work and people are becoming familiar to me. While I still don't have a landing spot in the library system, as of Friday I have an interim project (other than learning the similar-yet-different procedures and policies): I will be working on the RFID project. I met my partner on Friday and we interviewed the last 4 (out of 13) temp workers. We still don't know what the project really entails, but on Tuesday, when we are trained on the equipment, it will all fall into place. Hopefully. After all, how difficult can it be to organize placing RFID tags on every item in the system?

Despite the ever-changing job location, or maybe because of it, I am starting to get around without consulting Mapquest first. I know where the cheap parking lots are near the downtown library. Even better, I find myself singing along with the radio, watching for "my" mountains as I drive home, watching the clouds gather and disperse, noting the slant of light in the late afternoon.

It's an easy commute, regardless of where I'm going. The streets feel so wide and empty: blurts of traffic are followed by wide gaps, which gives me enough time to pull a U-turn at intersections when I find myself going the wrong way (and that still happens regularly.) I've left the Honda and its better gas mileage to D and have taken over the truck. It has manual steering and no pickup to speak of, and it's still easy enough to maneuver through traffic and onramps. I am developing a fondness for the frontage roads, but am not overly fearful of the highways.

Sadly, I was recently informed that I am living in a fool's paradise. Once school starts up in late August, travel time will triple in certain areas, and those spacious multi-lane hwys and main roads will fill up.

At least I'll get get my learning in while the traffic is manageable.

Discovery is the name of the game right now. I've found the classical radio station (which is so-so) and a terrific classic rock station (KIOT, pronounced Coyote.) My list of restaurants and things to do is growing and we actually had some friends over for dinner last week. The daily news focuses on the heat wave and the wildfires, and I'm starting to figure out where all those places are in relation to my home. I use the heat as an excuse to sit by the pool and read, and I've read 6 new books in the last 4 weeks.

From this perspective, it looks like I'm contentedly settling in. I have a routine and a comfortable place to be, both emotionally and physically. The finances are still a drag, but all the details are working themselves out, and D is very enthusiastic about his new job. I'm starting to lose a little weight and firm up a few muscles. I have a lot to be proud of and even more to enjoy about my life.

So, why am I still avoiding the computer? I started this post yesterday, after several hours of reading, cooking, and pool-sitting. I quit after 10 minutes, unable to sustain an interest in my own doings, unable to respond reasonably to my friends' postings and messages. I fought with D. When the BBQ with H got cancelled, I felt a familiar sinking feeling: I have no friends. Later, as D and I tried to get back on speaking terms, I broke down and sobbed, "I'm so lonely!"

Today's avoidance mechanism is different: I'm using the blog and FB to avoid taking care of business. In fact, I have spent 3 hours transcribing notes and tracking down links, when what I should be doing is paying my bills. And I'm wondering why I can't take care of myself and take care of business.  Why does my daily path seem to be a zigzag around things I just don't want to confront?  It seems no matter what I do, it isn't what I should be doing.

But maybe it's what I need to be doing.

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....

• 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.

"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.

Easter morning

So many of my friends are heathens like me, that it is a surprise to log into FB and discover other friends  commenting on Christian joys and sunrise services.  I used to be in sync with that.  I remember in previous years going to church and singing Easter hymns in four-part harmony, looking at the lilies by the altar, enjoying the pastels and veiled hats and really cute little girls in little white shoes and stockings with lacy tops.  I used to decorate Easter eggs and take pix of them among the garden flowers.  I created origami baskets and filled them with Whopper Robin's Eggs for the family.  I harvested spring herbs for special omelets, and I made breakfast breads with cinnamon and raisins.  I was into it.

But today I am celebrating a quieter, less domestic, less-communal sort of re-birth.  I want to bring myself back to life, and that needs to happen alone.

It's a rocky path, though.  I woke at 5 and listened to the birds singing in anticipation of the dawn.  I put on a robe and went outside:  the air was cool, springlike, almost balmy.  I felt almost too warm in my fuzzy yellow robe.  The scent of some flower drifted past on a fresh early morning breeze, a light caress.  Daphne?  Lilac?  Something spicy, something sweet, something uplifting.  I breathed it in, sensing the serenity of the morning, but my eyes were still gritty and wanted to close, so I went back to bed and had an AWFUL dream about shopping for antiques, paying $75 for a broken box, and somehow upsetting two of my sisters.  I woke up and decided to start this day differently.  D is at the beach with his men's group, I have the shedroom to myself.  I will turn things around, do some Qi Gong, some Tai Chi Chuh, make some coffee, snuggle with my dog.

And it works.  The neighborhood is quiet, and my shedroom is like a little cabin in the woods.  My urban cabin:  I love it so much.  The light streams through the skylights, and I look east over my garden while I practise and putter about the little kitchen area.  The cat leaps to the window ledge and watches me.  She doesn't seem to want in, she is companionable but not snuggly today.

I realize that what I really want is to go back to where I was 20 years ago, living in a one-room converted milk barn.  Back then, I walked across the driveway to the big house to take my shower, and it was perfect:  I figured out what the weather was and planned my clothing while I washed away the sleep.  My house felt connected to the earth and sky, and I felt connected, too.  I read A LOT and listened to music.  I went for long walks with the landlord's dog, and spent a lot of time with friends.  I put a darkroom in the landlord's laundry room.   I had everything I needed.  I was serene, content.

My shedroom feels very similar:  I start every day with a stroll through my garden.  I walk around the house to shower, do laundry, use the bathroom, watch TV, use the kitchen.   I don't need those last three, at least not often.  My kitchenette is sufficient for the basics, TV is a time and brain drain, and once the composting toilet is installed, I am set for most daily living.  The big problem is that I cannot really go back to this simpler life and still live with D.  The shedroom is too small for two, and he can't live without the amenities.  It's really a space built with my needs in mind.  He likes it, but only on limited terms.

It's been a tough spring, a tough year, a tough time all around, and not just for me.   In general, I know how lucky I have been, how supported.  I still have my home, my family, my friends, my pets, my sanity, my health, my work.  Basically.  There have been stresses on all of these, and I find myself bone-tired by 9 pm, every day.  I don't answer phone calls, I don't go to choir or music night, I hurt people's feelings, I hide from them and the consequences of my actions.  I lose track of my keys, my phone charger, and my checkbook.  (I'm still looking for my keys.)  There is no rhythm to my days, and I haven't meditated or practised Tai Chi Chuh or violin or viola da gamba since.....I can't recall when.

The home is evolving, and it's an ongoing process:  working with the new tenants, trying to keep the airbnb going, still painting the house and fixing up the yard.  There's some remodeling left to do, and some reorganizing and de-cluttering (who knew we had so many pictures?  books?  vitamins?  bottles of cortisone cream?  ditto of lotion and shampoo?)  Every day has a big project attached to it, sometimes two.   Order is slowly being wrought out of the chaos, but it feels like it's taking too long.  I yearn for a stable environment.  I miss my friends.  I miss myself.

But, I do seem to have the remnants of hope to build upon.  I have proof, in fact.  Recently I sent this message to a friend who was checking up on me:

Thanks! The sale is over and garnered almost enough income to cover vet emergencies and paint and floor refinishing! We had spent a week trying to toss things, and then left the sale to the professional and skipped town to recover. The sale was 3/24-25.

We went up to Port Angeles to visit Dave's wonderful cousins, and Carbon's laryngeal paralysis kicked in....after one hour on the way home it was so bad we stopped at the nearest clinic. 3 hours later, after several shots, and oxygen treatment, we were on our way, only to stop yet again to spend the night at a Motel 6. Total cost, for all of this, $400.

It's really scary to hear your sweet old dog panting for breath for 5 hours straight. No more road trips for her.

Then we got home and found Simone had an abscess. It was so bad they put in a drain. She's a tuxedo cat, and it looks like a grotesque bow tie. It stays in for 72 hours, which means an RCA victor collar and being sequestered inside. When I put the collar on her, she backed into a corner, eyes round with fright, and refused to eat or drink. We left her in the living room over night, and in the morning she greeted me sans collar and made a bolt for the outdoors. But, we've managed to keep her fairly well contained, and she's leaving the drain alone, so such is life. She really is quite sweet, and doesn't fight me too much over all this unnatural treatment.

Cost for that, $170. It would have been closer to $700, but I got a wellness plan last year when she had what has become her annual spring abscess.

Amongst all of this, I decided that, while the rooms were empty, we really should refinish the floors and paint the walls before the new housemates move in. That's tomorrow. Needless to say, we are not meeting that deadline. Cost for floors, $500. Cost for paint, $350. Will be working with the housemates to finish up.

We made $1375 on the sale. You do the math!

I spent today reorganizing the entire kitchen and clearing away the grime of 20 years, prepping for a shared kitchen. The floor guys came today, so it was the only room we could access. Fortunately, the shed room remodel is basically done, and we can sleep and rest out there. We put Carbon and Simone out there to keep them away from the chaos.

During all of it, I've been bickering with D. It makes me so sad that we don't always pull together.  This work could be fun, or at least a way to build closeness.  Instead we argue about what to do and how to do it.  The moments of consensus emphasize the disconnects, and I can't seem to focus on the positives.

On the plus side, the various changes to my homestead are wonderful, and once the final arrangements are made, it'll be a huge relief. I've needed to declutter for a long time. I really like my little shed. It's like a cabin, with a peaked roof, roses peeping in the windows, rain on the skylights, a little kitchenette, and a shuttered closet. The only thing it lacks is a bathroom. We're adding an outhouse next week, and regular bathroom stuff will be in the main house. Reminds me of my days in the milk barn on Taylor's Ferry Road. 

Still, I'm doing okay. Still interviewing for library gigs, still renting the studio for airbnb, still working on call, still wishing for a new career. Looks like innkeeper or landlord is the most likely. At any rate, I'll try not to let you all down. I hope you are right about my ability to ride this out. It's pretty exhausting right now.

Okay, so, the remnants of hope are a little tattered.

Procrastination

I sit on hold, while
He watches The Big Valley:
A wasted morning.

This actually was a nice morning until now.  I slept in a reasonable amount, took a nice long shower, had quality time with the pets, cleaned up the kitchen, did the laundry, read a few e-mails, did the crossword.  Nothing earth-shattering, but the moments were happy, and the results pleasing.

"We are currently experiencing a high call volume....you may remain on hold or you may wish to call back another time."

Um, what about a third option:  You stop messing up my claim so I don't have to make this call in the first place.

In a self-flagellating spirit, I make lists of things that I could be doing while I wait:

• Painting the shed
• Going for a walk
• Going through my papers
• Applying for jobs
• Gathering up supplies for the Library craft event
• Writing a letter
• Crafting
• Practicing violin or gamba
• Balancing my budget
• Baking bread
• Practicing tai chi chuh
• Stacking wood

In fact, the only things I can't do right now is Skype with my family or call Project Hope.  So why am I sitting here?

In The Artist's Way, Julie Cameron talks about how to fit her writing into the odd minutes of the day:  waiting to pick up her kid at school, for example.   I've tried that sort of thing, of course.   But I've found that I can't do anything that requires focus if interruptions are imminent or if background noise involves voices.  In college, my roommate could study to the TV.  I can't even carry on a conversation if the TV is on.  Even muting doesn't work for me.  There's something about it that disrupts my thought processes.

However, much of that list up there doesn't really involve thinking.  The tasks are, in fact, eminently interruptible.  In addition, I have plenty of other ways to spend my time.  I carry squares of paper so I can do origami while I sit at the traffic light.  I bring knitting for bus rides or meetings.  Why can't I do that sort of thing now?

The hold music drones on, with the occasional message to reassure me that I am not in limbo.  Except, I am.  I start thinking about the lost minutes of my day.  It's such gorgeous weather.  Shouldn't I be out in it?

The other day I overheard a teacher say to a principal, "No I don't want to talk about it.  I've already give 2 hours of my life to it."  Yes.  I think we allow too much of our beautiful lives to be  swallowed up.   And too much of our energy goes to finding reasons for not doing something about it.

Enough.

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.

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.

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.   

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.

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.

Sleep vs work vs play

Last night I came home from work at 10 pm.  I was greeted with the microwave crisis:  sometimes it gets overloaded and stops working or displaying any signs of life.   The key is to leave it alone for awhile.  If you do that, it will emit a little beep, the electronic version of a deep breath.  The lights will come back on, and it's ready to rock.  D did not know this, so he had checked the breaker box and then shlepped the whole thing into the studio to test it on the plugs in there.  No dice.  He returned it to the kitchen, grumbling the whole way.  I sashayed in, jiggled the plug, and voila!  We once more had a working microwave.

But the damage was done.  It had been an exhausting day for me:  I got up early to walk the dog, then baked a pie and a quiche for tonight's gathering.  Then I spent 2 hours doing virtual reference ("is there a site for table manners in Israel?")  M stopped by to cut some juniper and cedar and gather some pine cones for her home decor.  (Smells are the most important part of the seasonal activities:  greenery, spices, baking.)  During breaks, I edited some OLAQ articles.  I did dishes, put away groceries, changed into khaki and white, and took off for the mall, which was frantically busy.  Again, I spent a good 15 minutes hunting for a parking space that wasn't in another state.

It was so busy in the store that the cleanup happened after we locked the gates.  It was my first time with the push broom.  I didn't like it.

However, I was determined to spend an hour on decorating the tree and listening to Christmas music and enjoying the lights and the annual ornament discoveries (where's the pickle?  the sailing santa?  the skaters?  the grandma ornaments?)  Unfortunately, D did not recover so quickly from the microwave incident.  We bickered, I fought with the tangle of lights.  The usual discussion ensued re:  process.  I believe in deploying the glass balls symmetrically around the tree, making sure the reds and golds are evenly distributed.  Then, I fill in the spaces with the ornaments.  D thinks the balls take up too much space.  Bicker, bicker, bicker.

By the time we were done with the main tree and the Charlie Brown tree in the studio, it was 1 am, and I had to get up for a 9 am rehearsal.  But I was too wired from the events of the day to sleep, and I had forgotten my restless legs meds.  So, it was another half hour of electronic scrabble, e-mail, etc before I got to sleep.  Today I rehearse from 9-noon, work from 1-6, and dash home to make toffee and cut up fruit for the gathering, which starts at 7.

Next week I am essentially working every day, sometimes at two sites in one day.

I am starting to feel like the microwave.

Pie night!

Last night was Thanksgiving Eve, aka, Pie Night.  I was first introduced to Pie Night 10 years ago.  I had just started dating D, and he had explained to me that Thanksgiving was a big ritual at his sister's.  While he found that potentially intimidating, it was not an issue for me.  I've never known the holidays to not be ritualized.  When I moved to the Pacific Northwest 30 years ago, my Mom's family took me in for the holidays, which were mainly celebrated at Grandma's house in Vancouver.  As the song says, "Over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house we go...."   There were no woods, but the rest fit.  My aunt, her stepdaughter and son, my brother, and I would carpool over the Columbia River to meet with the Vancouver family:  Grandma, Grandpa, and my other aunt.

The afternoon was choreographed:  appetizers and champagne by the fireplace, table set with Grandma's silver and good dishes, Grandma putting finishing touches in the kitchen and refusing any help.  J would walk down from her house and stake out a place on the couch, heavy purse set nearby. L would sit next to her, elegantly dressed and sporting the latest hand-made necklaces and ear-rings.  She would talk about the latest discovery and I would dip celery sticks into the cottage cheese dip.  When he got older, E would be in charge of opening the champagne.  Supper was eaten around 2 pm.  It was a predominantly beige meal, with lefse and rutabagas in addition to the usual turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes.

Eventually I acquired my own car and was able to be independent of my brother's or aunt's chauffeur service.  I would go over Wednesday night so I could help Grandma put in the turkey early Thursday morning.  I still remember the year I forgot my glasses.  I didn't want to put in my contacts at 6 in the morning, since I was going back to bed, so I had my near-sighted face 2 inches from the bird as I was washing and filling it up with stuffing and tying it shut.  Grandma always said things like, "I can't remember how this works."  She'd been doing it for over 60 years, but I understood.  I still have to look it up the cooking time in Joy of Cooking.

After I bought my house, in 1993, I decided it was time to give Grandma a break and host the Thanksgiving myself.  For a few years, my cousin was living with me, and we hosted together.  My aunt's husband would be the chauffeur for the Vancouver crew, now minus Grandpa.  Then he'd come into the kitchen to help.   He would grab serving dishes and start mixing things up in them, using the good utensils, and he desperately wanted to carve the turkey and mash the potatoes, which was my cousin's job.  So we would send him out to the living room to share appetizers and chat, and he would sulk.  He did bring fabulous pies, and eventually I lightened up and let him back in the kitchen, which is where all the fun is anyway.

I still remember the year I forgot to turn off the preheat function (this being the old oven that didn't automatically stop pre-heating when the temp was reached.)   2 hours into the 6-hour cook time, I realized my mistake and called my brother-in-law in a panic, he being the cooking guru in my family.  Since he lived in IL, he was 2 hours ahead of me.  By that time, he was well into his holiday cheer.  He burst into laughter and informed me that I had essentially broiled and baked my bird.  Then he said, there's nothing much you CAN do but baste the hell out of it.  I did that, and it turned out fine.  Really, it's hard to ruin a turkey.

So the years passed, and various members of the family came and went.  The Thanksgiving ritual evolved.  10 years ago, I was still buying Otto's turkey and stuffing, but now I was the guest of my aunt.  I had not yet started spending holidays with D's family.   However, on this memorable Wednesday night my back was in spasm, and we stopped by to use his sister's hot tub.  D let us in with his key.  We discovered the nieces and his sister in the little room to the left of the front door.  One was lying her back on the floor, and the other two were reclining in rockers.  His sister L was looking up at the ceiling with her arm across her brow, deep in thought.  The others were equally contemplative.  They looked secretive, mysterious, private.  I was intrigued, and slightly embarrassed to be intruding.

D explained that this was an annual event, and they had a long night still ahead of them.  It was Pie Night, and they had to make nine pies for the 20 or so guests that were coming the next day.  Apparently they had already made 4 and were resting while they went through the process of choosing the other 5.  On Thanksgiving Day the pies would be cut into 20 or so really skinny pieces and deployed down the center of the table.  Everyone would take several slices, and L would keep track of what people thought of the various pies.  Some flavors were fixtures.  These were two types of apple (one with a crumble top) and two types of pumpkin (one with a graham cracker crust and pudding filling.)

The girls had been drafted into this duty for years, and I thought it sounded like fun.  I expressed this opinion, and was invited to join the group the following year.  I didn't realize that this was unheard of, but my participation was the thin edge of the wedge.  In the coming years, we would be joined by D and his cousin and various live-in students.  Also, as the years passed the nieces would begin rebelling against the formula.  They started bringing the fixings for rum-based drinks, hiding them in the back bedroom and running in for tastes.  They started lobbying for a reduction in the number of pies.  One even skipped a year.

I still like Pie Night, though.  I show up after work to find them all hard at it.   L has gathered together ingredients and made the pie dough.  It's made with egg and vinegar, as well as Crisco, flour, salt, and water.  It produces a wonderfully flaky crust, but in recent years Crisco changed its formula to be "healthier," and the dough is very tough to handle.  This year she experiments with a mixture of lard and Crisco, and it seems to help.  She is rolling out the crusts and deploying her army to make the fillings.  We discuss what to have for the additional pies.  Every year she has an experimental pie.  This year it is a cranberry pecan.  I make it, as well as the lemon sour cream.

After the first few pies are in the oven, we sit down to a dinner of soup, cornbread, and salad.  The soup has been bubbling on the stove, L has been building the salad in between crusts, and the bread has been baking while the nieces have been starting on the first fillings.  The elder takes charge of the apples.  L owns an incredibly fascinating gadget for coring, peeling, and slicing apples.  It's assembled and clamped to the edge of the cutting board.  An apple is pushed onto the coring spike, and the peeling/slicing mechanism is put into motion with a few deft turns of the hand crank.

This year I am later than usual, and, to my disappointment, I missed the apple part of the ritual.  When I arrive, K is shaking apple slices in a large baggie, coating them with sugar and spices.  Her sister had started working on the pumpkin chiffon pie, but stopped to do dishes.  A sauce pan sits on an unlit burner, filled with pumpkin and condensed milk and spices that have yet to be combined and cooked.  Later she would say that her pie was the first started and the last finished.  She is wearing her grandma's apron, it having just been unearthed as part of L's de-cluttering pre-house-sale work.  And she is clearly not in a good mood.  Exasperation is the predominant message of her utterances and body language.  Usually she is the humorously resigned niece, and her sister is the vocally indignant one ("There are too many pies!")  I wonder what's going on.  However, having already been dealing with D's snippiness, it's a relief to know this frustration is not directed at me.

Turns out she is unhappy because it's her newly-wed husband's birthday.  She wants to be celebrating it with him, but she doesn't feel she can back out of Pie Night.  Also, she is pledged to make pies for the Friday beach trip with his family.  So, she is pied out this year.  D commiserates with her, and they drink some overly fruity vanilla vodka concoction at the side counter.  (The drinks came out of the back bedroom last year and are now a regular part of the event.)

After dinner, R and K's husband start building the table.   They use plywood to extend the table so that it can accommodate 20 or so plates.  The couches are rearranged at the end of the room by the fireplace, and the table goes down the center.  I tackle my pies while D goes to work on the buttermilk pie, one of the more regular extra pies.  In the past we have made a Nutella-based pie,  with chocolate cookie crust, and I miss that entry.  We also nix a nice coffee pie, a regular pecan pie, and various berry pies.  We've never had mince, which doesn't bother me a bit.

It's all done by 10:30, and we go home, to rest up for further cooking the next day.  I've offered our oven for K's bread, as she is also making the main turkey, and L's oven is cooking the backup/leftovers turkey.  D is going to be making "bug beans," his ex-wife's excellent recipe, which uses bacon, water chestnuts, and a last-minute topping of parmesan. Etc.  It's the usual food overload.

However, it is worth it.  As L says in her grace, "we are thankful for the bounty in our lives and at this table, and for the many hands that created this feast."  I am thankful that I have been welcomed into this family, and that I have been initiated into Pie Night.