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.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Our Sweet Puppy Dog
Our last days in Portland, Carbon followed us from room to room, looking up at us with anxious eyes. Her breathing was raspy, as it has been for the last few months, an indication that the laryngeal paralysis was getting worse. She could still jump up to the bed and curl next to me with a doggy sigh. Contentment or resignation? I was never sure which, but when I reached down to pet her, she would stretch alongside me and rub her head against my hand, demanding more of that ear action, please. Simone would join us, sometimes purring on my chest, sometimes sitting in her library lion pose on my feet, sometimes rubbing her head against Carbon's.
They both knew something was up.
The car and truck were packed and M, our 3rd driver, was ready and waiting. I sat with Carbon in front of me, as I stroked her ears, rubbed her chest, scratched her back. D joined me, and we said goodbye, tears rolling down our cheeks.
Simone followed us to the cars and I picked her up for a final hug. She purred and then leapt down and started rolling on the sidewalk. I got in the car, and she sat up and watched me with slanted green eyes and pointed ears. She has lived with us since she was 4 weeks old...now she is over 7, still kittenish in size, feisty and street smart.
We had a nice drive east through the Gorge, fetching up at Baker City for the night. The next day we made it as far as Spanish Forks, just south of Provo UT. As I checked my e-mail, I came across one from our upstairs renter. Carbon had apparently collapsed outside the woodpile on Saturday after we left. Her breathing was labored and she was foaming at the mouth. J got her inside and lay with her at the foot of the stairs, stroking her, calming her. The next morning Carbon was upstairs, sleeping on the rug in the big common room outside J's bedroom, back to normal.
I sent a thank you note.
Monday was Day 3 of the drive, and my 53rd birthday. We had a long drive ahead of us: through mountains of SE Utah, on into southern Colorado and then angling through New Mexico, our new home. Lots of amazing rock formations and wild lonely country.
Outside of Moab, we stopped for gas and a bathroom break, and that's when the torture began. I checked my phone: a message from Mom wishing me a happy birthday, and a message from C, our Portland neighbor. She had found Carbon collapsed in the street, foaming at the mouth, vulnerable to passing cars. She carried Carbon inside the gate, got her some water, settled her on the porch, gave her some water, and put the large flower pot in front of the gate to keep her inside.
Apparently our renter, who is a professional dog sitter and dog walker, decided to lock Carbon out of the house, and Carbon started looking for us.
Over the next several hours, we called people all over Portland, trying to find someone with keys to the house to get Carbon back into safety. J had confiscated the key we had left under the pot for our friends. Our other renter and key-holder was not moving in until the next day. H and S were still in Colorado with the spare keys and the CareCredit card. We reached voice mails galore, and when we actually reached a person, the mountains started interfering with reception. We dropped calls. We called again. Voices faded in and out. It was agony.
We reach KJR, D's son. His car was unavailable, so he walked several miles and sat with Carbon until our renter returned. He got Carbon into the studio, which the b&b renters had just vacated. Constant calls over the evening and next day, as Carbon's condition waxed and waned. A trip to Dove Lewis emergency vet. A call to the regular vet. Discussions of medication and treatment.
Tuesday morning we arrange for M to help KJR sit with Carbon for the rest of the week, until Saturday, when H and S return to take over.
Early Wednesday morning, our son calls. Carbon had gone outside, gone to the front gate, and then returned to the house. Wearily, painfully, she walked back up the stairs, her arthritic legs laboring. She walked into the house, lay down, and...passed.
There are no words to express our grief, guilt and gratitude. We know we rescued her, gave her 5 years of love, received the same back. We know we couldn't take her with us. We know she was old and seriously ill. We know that our son and our dog had a hellish 3 days. We know that our careful plans did not cover this eventuality. We know that Carbon was looking for us, missing us. We know that we did the best we could. We know that we have family we can count on. We know that our sweet puppy dog spent her last hours with someone who loved her as much as we did.
Today our son sent this message:
Thank you.
They both knew something was up.
The car and truck were packed and M, our 3rd driver, was ready and waiting. I sat with Carbon in front of me, as I stroked her ears, rubbed her chest, scratched her back. D joined me, and we said goodbye, tears rolling down our cheeks.
Simone followed us to the cars and I picked her up for a final hug. She purred and then leapt down and started rolling on the sidewalk. I got in the car, and she sat up and watched me with slanted green eyes and pointed ears. She has lived with us since she was 4 weeks old...now she is over 7, still kittenish in size, feisty and street smart.
We had a nice drive east through the Gorge, fetching up at Baker City for the night. The next day we made it as far as Spanish Forks, just south of Provo UT. As I checked my e-mail, I came across one from our upstairs renter. Carbon had apparently collapsed outside the woodpile on Saturday after we left. Her breathing was labored and she was foaming at the mouth. J got her inside and lay with her at the foot of the stairs, stroking her, calming her. The next morning Carbon was upstairs, sleeping on the rug in the big common room outside J's bedroom, back to normal.
I sent a thank you note.
Monday was Day 3 of the drive, and my 53rd birthday. We had a long drive ahead of us: through mountains of SE Utah, on into southern Colorado and then angling through New Mexico, our new home. Lots of amazing rock formations and wild lonely country.
Outside of Moab, we stopped for gas and a bathroom break, and that's when the torture began. I checked my phone: a message from Mom wishing me a happy birthday, and a message from C, our Portland neighbor. She had found Carbon collapsed in the street, foaming at the mouth, vulnerable to passing cars. She carried Carbon inside the gate, got her some water, settled her on the porch, gave her some water, and put the large flower pot in front of the gate to keep her inside.
Apparently our renter, who is a professional dog sitter and dog walker, decided to lock Carbon out of the house, and Carbon started looking for us.
Over the next several hours, we called people all over Portland, trying to find someone with keys to the house to get Carbon back into safety. J had confiscated the key we had left under the pot for our friends. Our other renter and key-holder was not moving in until the next day. H and S were still in Colorado with the spare keys and the CareCredit card. We reached voice mails galore, and when we actually reached a person, the mountains started interfering with reception. We dropped calls. We called again. Voices faded in and out. It was agony.
We reach KJR, D's son. His car was unavailable, so he walked several miles and sat with Carbon until our renter returned. He got Carbon into the studio, which the b&b renters had just vacated. Constant calls over the evening and next day, as Carbon's condition waxed and waned. A trip to Dove Lewis emergency vet. A call to the regular vet. Discussions of medication and treatment.
Tuesday morning we arrange for M to help KJR sit with Carbon for the rest of the week, until Saturday, when H and S return to take over.
Early Wednesday morning, our son calls. Carbon had gone outside, gone to the front gate, and then returned to the house. Wearily, painfully, she walked back up the stairs, her arthritic legs laboring. She walked into the house, lay down, and...passed.
There are no words to express our grief, guilt and gratitude. We know we rescued her, gave her 5 years of love, received the same back. We know we couldn't take her with us. We know she was old and seriously ill. We know that our son and our dog had a hellish 3 days. We know that our careful plans did not cover this eventuality. We know that Carbon was looking for us, missing us. We know that we did the best we could. We know that we have family we can count on. We know that our sweet puppy dog spent her last hours with someone who loved her as much as we did.
Today our son sent this message:
 |
| She loved the porch. I love you guys. |
Thursday, May 17, 2012
My house smells like cheerios
Yesterday I finally started to pack. D had gone to the grocery store to find uniform boxes: none of that liquor store jumble for us. I went through the bookshelves and tchotchkes and stacked up photos and music and art, trying my best to pack in an organized fashion, but not make it too heavy to carry up the attic stairs.
I took the duct tape (has anyone ever used duct tape for taping ducts?) and the large marker. I sealed and labeled: "K's books, NF" "D's photos." "K's letters." "Monmouth memorabilia." (Why did Mom have to start sending me the high school essays and tassels? And the baby book with one page filled in? And the baby bonnet? And every, I swear, letter I wrote home from college?)
The whole time, I was haunted by an indefinable, not unpleasant, sweet/nutty odor. While I packed, I puzzled over it....paper usually smells of must or dust or something old. Not of food.
Today D went out for more boxes. He dropped an armload in the entry and I was overwhelmed by that odor. I looked at the boxes and saw the labels: cheerios, rice krispies, corn flakes. And I figured it out. Duh.
I took the duct tape (has anyone ever used duct tape for taping ducts?) and the large marker. I sealed and labeled: "K's books, NF" "D's photos." "K's letters." "Monmouth memorabilia." (Why did Mom have to start sending me the high school essays and tassels? And the baby book with one page filled in? And the baby bonnet? And every, I swear, letter I wrote home from college?)
The whole time, I was haunted by an indefinable, not unpleasant, sweet/nutty odor. While I packed, I puzzled over it....paper usually smells of must or dust or something old. Not of food.
Today D went out for more boxes. He dropped an armload in the entry and I was overwhelmed by that odor. I looked at the boxes and saw the labels: cheerios, rice krispies, corn flakes. And I figured it out. Duh.
 |
| An unexpected Off-shoot of packing: my house Smells of cereal. |
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
In which refgoddess discovers she's a lousy mom
So, we're getting ready to move to New Mexico. We have 9 days to decide what comes with us and what stays. We have no money for a real move, and we want to figure out neighborhoods and jobs before we totally uproot. The original idea was to rent a furnished apartment and take enough dishes and clothing to last for 6 months while we located a more permanent dwelling. Sadly, we were unable to find a furnished apartment within our budget. Of course, there are plenty of vacation rentals, and if I were an executive I could find some dandy places..... for $3.5k a month....which is more than I'll be making.
Instead, we are renting an unfurnished 2-bedroom apartment, loading up the truck (cue Beverly Hillbillies theme song) and the Honda, and looking for drivers to spell us on the 3-day drive. There is everything to be done: finding boxes, packing things for storage or transport; finalizing rentals here and there, setting up utilities, filling prescriptions; finishing up taxes and other business transactions; saying goodbye to friends for the nonce.
Fortunately the most difficult and important job was taken off our hands by H and S: they offered a home to Carbon and Simone. I will not dwell on their kindness in taking on a geriatric dog, right after losing their beloved Louie. Nor will I dwell on how it feels to leave the furry side of our family behind. I know it's in their best interests to not uproot or separate them, and there's no way Carbon can manage the trip with her laryngeal paralysis. But I will miss them so much.
Monday night, H and S came over with knitting and notebook and ice cream to discuss the logistics of the hand off. Who's the vet? How do they behave at the vet? What sorts of meds do they take? What do they eat? Are they allowed people food? Do they have accidents in the house? Can I predict the causes? etc.
I fumbled on so many of the answers, most of them Carbon-centric. Ummm....yeah those meds, well, they're supposed to be given every 12 hours, but she's lucky if she gets them once a day. The ulcer on her gums has been there for over a year, there's an ointment but I don't put it on her regularly because it's a 2-person job. No biting, just a lot of head-burrowing and head-shaking. (Simone still has stitches from her last abscess and I can feel another bump.) No walks for Carbon, now that her ailment has kicked in. (Yes, it's a good idea to keep Simone in for the first week, but good luck making that stick.) Food, umm....she's allowed to lick the plates, and I usually just set the plate on the floor when I'm done although I know she should eat in the kitchen, mumble mumble.... Commands? "Sit, go lie down, moven sie." Stay, sorta. She comes when I call her name, because that usually means food or walk. She does not come if there's a squirrel in sight.
They nod and take notes and at no time do they say I'm a lousy mom, although at one point S informs Carbon that she will be moving in with a martinet. I'm guessing she'll be learning a few more commands. I'm pretty sure you can teach this old dog a few new tricks: she's both smart and amenable.
We finish up the list, talk about our respective travels, eat some smooth and creamy vanilla ice cream, sans chocolate sauce. Simone cuddles up next to me and I get a bit teary: usually cuddling is reserved for the cold months, but I think she knows I'm getting ready to abandon her. Carbon lies at our feet and gets up now and then to put her head on a knee. H and S tell me that they are so looking forward to having a biological kitchen cleaner again: they are tired of picking up dropped food, and the soap usage has risen since Louie stopped licking the grease off the plates.
I am grateful to have trustworthy and loving friends who want to take on my responsibilities. And, although I am the light of Carbon's life, I think they'll be better moms, too. But oh, I'll miss them. All of them.
Instead, we are renting an unfurnished 2-bedroom apartment, loading up the truck (cue Beverly Hillbillies theme song) and the Honda, and looking for drivers to spell us on the 3-day drive. There is everything to be done: finding boxes, packing things for storage or transport; finalizing rentals here and there, setting up utilities, filling prescriptions; finishing up taxes and other business transactions; saying goodbye to friends for the nonce.
Fortunately the most difficult and important job was taken off our hands by H and S: they offered a home to Carbon and Simone. I will not dwell on their kindness in taking on a geriatric dog, right after losing their beloved Louie. Nor will I dwell on how it feels to leave the furry side of our family behind. I know it's in their best interests to not uproot or separate them, and there's no way Carbon can manage the trip with her laryngeal paralysis. But I will miss them so much.
Monday night, H and S came over with knitting and notebook and ice cream to discuss the logistics of the hand off. Who's the vet? How do they behave at the vet? What sorts of meds do they take? What do they eat? Are they allowed people food? Do they have accidents in the house? Can I predict the causes? etc.
I fumbled on so many of the answers, most of them Carbon-centric. Ummm....yeah those meds, well, they're supposed to be given every 12 hours, but she's lucky if she gets them once a day. The ulcer on her gums has been there for over a year, there's an ointment but I don't put it on her regularly because it's a 2-person job. No biting, just a lot of head-burrowing and head-shaking. (Simone still has stitches from her last abscess and I can feel another bump.) No walks for Carbon, now that her ailment has kicked in. (Yes, it's a good idea to keep Simone in for the first week, but good luck making that stick.) Food, umm....she's allowed to lick the plates, and I usually just set the plate on the floor when I'm done although I know she should eat in the kitchen, mumble mumble.... Commands? "Sit, go lie down, moven sie." Stay, sorta. She comes when I call her name, because that usually means food or walk. She does not come if there's a squirrel in sight.
They nod and take notes and at no time do they say I'm a lousy mom, although at one point S informs Carbon that she will be moving in with a martinet. I'm guessing she'll be learning a few more commands. I'm pretty sure you can teach this old dog a few new tricks: she's both smart and amenable.
We finish up the list, talk about our respective travels, eat some smooth and creamy vanilla ice cream, sans chocolate sauce. Simone cuddles up next to me and I get a bit teary: usually cuddling is reserved for the cold months, but I think she knows I'm getting ready to abandon her. Carbon lies at our feet and gets up now and then to put her head on a knee. H and S tell me that they are so looking forward to having a biological kitchen cleaner again: they are tired of picking up dropped food, and the soap usage has risen since Louie stopped licking the grease off the plates.
I am grateful to have trustworthy and loving friends who want to take on my responsibilities. And, although I am the light of Carbon's life, I think they'll be better moms, too. But oh, I'll miss them. All of them.
Ear-worms from Ashland
Way back when I was just a child and TVs were black and white, the TV networks ran a musical version of Cinderella, starring Lesley Ann Warren. I remember watching it, and my nascent feminist was nauseated by the scene where she dips up water for the Prince, gazing raptly upward with big eyes, as she served her man. Nowhere does this show up in Grimm, but there are some biblical overtones of Eliezer and Rebekah. It seems that wife hunters need to haunt wells....but I digress.
That scene was thankfully absent this past weekend when Ashland served up a demented version of the Rodgers and Hammerstein classic, performed simultaneously with Euripedes' Medea and Shakespeare's MacBeth. D bailed 15 minutes in, during "The Prince is Giving a Ball." I stuck it out, because I wanted to see what in bloody hell they were trying to prove.
Not being ADD, I found the effort of following 3 plotlines enervating. I really wanted to focus on the Medea plot line, which I knew the least. The chorus and various characters wore masks, in homage to traditional Greek theatre, and it really worked. Actually, the acting in all three cases was superb, and the Medea chorus sang some lovely songs, but the interpolation of Cinderella really distracted from the tragedies, and it was difficult to make any connection amongst the plot lines. They didn't really share themes, other than those of ambition, betrayal, and vicious parenting. I did like how the proximity to Medea and, to a lesser extent, MacBeth, darkened the Cinderella plot. You could really see where the fairy tale might take her, and they underlined the point by having Medea don Cinderella's kerchief and apron. Yeah, sweetie, the prince and Jason are brothers in arms....just wait until you've lived with him awhile.
Eventually, the actors started sharing props and language, merging into each other, until finally all costumes were subsumed in an all-black rehearsal outfit, and the actors from all the plotlines merged, with royalty on the top floor, main characters on the 2nd, and chorus on the bottom. Applause followed, some standing, but most of us were scratching our heads.
Despite my irritation with the seemingly gratuitous Playx3 device, I found enough interest and enjoyment to make it worth my time. However, I will not forgive them for the ear-worms I took away with me. I spent all day yesterday humming "Why would a fellow want a girl like her" It was almost as monotonous as, "this is the song that never ends...."
heh heh heh
That scene was thankfully absent this past weekend when Ashland served up a demented version of the Rodgers and Hammerstein classic, performed simultaneously with Euripedes' Medea and Shakespeare's MacBeth. D bailed 15 minutes in, during "The Prince is Giving a Ball." I stuck it out, because I wanted to see what in bloody hell they were trying to prove.
Not being ADD, I found the effort of following 3 plotlines enervating. I really wanted to focus on the Medea plot line, which I knew the least. The chorus and various characters wore masks, in homage to traditional Greek theatre, and it really worked. Actually, the acting in all three cases was superb, and the Medea chorus sang some lovely songs, but the interpolation of Cinderella really distracted from the tragedies, and it was difficult to make any connection amongst the plot lines. They didn't really share themes, other than those of ambition, betrayal, and vicious parenting. I did like how the proximity to Medea and, to a lesser extent, MacBeth, darkened the Cinderella plot. You could really see where the fairy tale might take her, and they underlined the point by having Medea don Cinderella's kerchief and apron. Yeah, sweetie, the prince and Jason are brothers in arms....just wait until you've lived with him awhile.
Eventually, the actors started sharing props and language, merging into each other, until finally all costumes were subsumed in an all-black rehearsal outfit, and the actors from all the plotlines merged, with royalty on the top floor, main characters on the 2nd, and chorus on the bottom. Applause followed, some standing, but most of us were scratching our heads.
Despite my irritation with the seemingly gratuitous Playx3 device, I found enough interest and enjoyment to make it worth my time. However, I will not forgive them for the ear-worms I took away with me. I spent all day yesterday humming "Why would a fellow want a girl like her" It was almost as monotonous as, "this is the song that never ends...."
heh heh heh
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)