She is sleeping too much. When I was here three weeks ago, I noticed it and thought she was tired from the week. She gets out of bed and dresses. Then she nods off in the leather recliner, her head tipped back, mouth open, snoring, audible over the impossibly loud volume of the television. In the winter, it's basketball; in the summer: baseball. She rouses briefly to drink an ensure at lunch time, then sleeps away the afternoon. She falls asleep in the car on the way home from dinner. This does not keep her from sleeping at night.
My dad and my brother silently pass sections of the paper back and forth. My brother points out a half-page spread advertising the book The Lonely Polygamist, featuring the author Brady Udall. I sneer. Brady and I were friends (?)/friendly our freshman year of college at Brigham Young University. He is part of the fabric of my memories from that time, that luminous time in my life. We went to a dance together (Sadie Hopkins), and sat on an outdoor grate in the dark with hot blowing air warming us. I think it was November, but it probably wasn't that late into Fall. I don't remember what we talked about. I still have old pics around somewhere.
I sneered because when I knew him, he was a reader, and I the writer. (As Dereck just pointed out to me, "Hey, he got out there and did it." True.) I remember walking through downtown Provo with him during the spring term of our freshman year, when the town had emptied as much as Provo ever did, and perusing used bookstores. He asked me if I had read Harlan Ellison. I still have not.
Now our roles seem to have reversed. I pick up his book at the airport and read the jacket, look at his largely unchanged face. Ah, men, since you don't carry other people within your bodies, you are so much less subject to change than we are. Then I set it down and buy a paperback instead.
Almost every time I come to visit, my mother persuades me (mostly through asking incessantly) to take her shopping. She buys clothes she regrets within 5 minutes, and my father is left to return them. This visit is different. My brother drives our dad to the doctor, so I spend the day with our mother. She really can't/shouldn't be left alone for longer than a half hour. On the rare occasions that she finds herself alone, she calls the neighbors and frets. She speaks of buying a bathing suit. I do not answer.
Instead, I drive her to the Senior Center. We ask about classes, buy a membership for $3. I sign her up for a beginning computer class that she has already failed. An oil painting class she will never attend, because it meets too early in the morning, but I am feeling sort of desperately optimistic. There is a chance she will attend one of the free handicraft classes. The woman at the desk says, "You can bring your project."
"I don't have a project," my mother tells her.
"No," I say cheerily, "but you have a crochet hook and yarn! And maybe someone can help you get started." Actually, I know from experience that this has about as much chance as the computer class. However, even if she can just show up and sit and not nap, that will be enough.
She repeats like a parrot that she wants the crochet class. I tell her that this is the handicraft class. She tells the woman at the desk she'd like to take an art class. I point to the oil painting class description on our brochure, upon which I have been circling classes and writing "Free" with arrows pointing to them. I ask for a stapler and staple all the receipts together to the brochure, to put on the refrigerator later. My mother bristles when I say about oil painting, "We just signed you up for this... remember?"
Next, we go to the art supply store. However, it's not for supplies for her class. There is a difference between paying $3 for a class and droppi9ng $100 on supplies I'll just end up sneaking into my suitcase on subsequent visits.
We get pastels, a coloring book of geometric shapes she picks out and hates 5 minutes later. We get some sketch pads and pencils for me. I get an instruction book on drawing Mythological Creatures for Sam, but dissuade her from buying a $20 water color instruction book. In the evening, she watches me make rudimentary sketches: circles with shading. A tree and some grass. She wishes out loud for an instruction book, but I am loathe to give her Sam's. She won't use it. And I have already told him about it. I bought a paperback the other day, and she immediately asked me if she could have it. I order chicken with goat cheese for supper when she gets the Marsala, and she stares longingly at my dinner and picks at her meal. She drinks half my beer, after asking for a "taste." She wants what other people have. However, as soon as she has it, her interest immediately wanes.
I get out the pastels and coloring book. She no longer likes the geometrical shapes, and claims she needs something more whimsical. She knows that I am worried because she literally eats, sleeps, and poops. That's it. She is in pain and depressed. She isn't allowed to drive anymore. But this sleeping bothers me intensely. It's pathological. Even if she colors like a child, it is better than the newborn state she has entered. My father says he'll consider... something when she is either incontinent or hurts herself or others. My brother and I hear the sound of inevitability and wonder why the consummate Eagle Scout is failing to prepare. My brother and I take a walk after dinner and discuss the issue. We fear our window of getting our parents to move to one of our states has passed. We envision continuing to trek to Utah to visit them in assisted living. My father is an immovable object. He is still cognizant, competent. I read a copy of his will. It takes a court order or two doctors to declare someone incompetent. My father is in no danger. My mother is another story. I suspect I could find more than two doctors who would be willing to sign away the remaining remnants of her independence and dignity.
She looks at the coloring book she picked out and now hates. She says she is tired. She repeats that it isn't whimsical enough. For 15 minutes, she pleads to be let out of the task of picking one shape from one page to color. She says she will do it tomorrow. I insist, until she has colored 5 geometrical shapes. She pauses after the first square to ask if there are instructions somewhere for the coloring book. I stare. "Have we really come to this?" I say quietly. "Can you truly not do this?"
I mentally shake myself afterward. I give her the crayons and colored pencils I have brought with me. I give her two of the three blank sketch pads. I give her my unread paperback. I put my arms around her and tell her everything is going to be OK.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
The Gloaming
Several months ago, my friend John told me that he had a belated birthday present for me from last year's birthday: He had tickets to go see Avenue Q in Cedar Falls, Iowa. At the time, that seemed very far off. We had an entire winter to endure and survive first.
John is the friend who turned me on to both Rent and Wicked. He had a long grudge against Avenue Q when it beat Wicked for the Tony.
We stayed with John's parents. I felt like a kid again, because his mother made us dinner (bacon/shrimp quiche, strawberry pie!!!) and we went with them, in the back of their mini-van, to the show. His mother also baked us cookies to take home with us. But John stole my cookies.
I had had reservations (no pun intended) about the show, which I shared with John ahead of time, because all I really knew was that there were muppets. I wasn't sure how much I'd enjoy it, because I don't like cartoons, generally (i.e., The Simpsons). I needn't have worried-- I loved it. Of course, in addition to being a good (if not one that will endure for the ages) show, the cast was phenomenal. So much energy and talent. They acted and sang their little hearts out, and it was such a pleasure to watch.
I am now following some of the cast on Facebook and Twitter. John and I speculated that they probably went back to their hotels after the show to sleep and take care of their voices-- but I found out that they had gone to a strip club. They must have gone to Waterloo (that is an Iowa joke).
Then, we went out with some of John's friends from High School, and went back to his parents' house very late and ate strawberry pie.
I slept in the next morning. John and I went out for tapas, and then we shopped some of the city's boutiques. I was charmed into buying some replacement wine and cocktail glasses for our birthdays. This is my entire birthday month, by the way, LOL. I can justify many things.
The Hy-Vee there has an olive bar, so we went and got so. many. olives. They were Dereck's Easter present. Then, we got some cheese and crackers and huge Diet Cokes for the ride home. The ride home was just beautiful. Why is Iowa so much prettier than Missouri? I told John on the way up, "This is my favorite light-- the purplish light when the colors are all very vivid-- the Gloaming."
John was stunned not only that someone else had noticed that light, but that there is actually a name for it. I was stunned too when I found out about the Gloaming-- I think it's one of the coolest things ever. You see it after rain sometimes, as we did Friday, but I used to catch it daily when I was in college. I would be on my way to Ellis Hall for poetry class with Wayne Dodd, and I somehow thought the magic light was connected to that magic class, to the experience of being young, in love with poetry, in love with Spring, in love with a man I later divorced. Isn't the grandeur of everything we love, though, somehow linked to its impermanence?
When I got home, we chilled with some friends and drank some wine I'd picked up in Cedar Falls. And then it was Easter.
Usually, I try not to eat before running, but I couldn't say no when Dereck offered to make Easter brekkie. So, he made us some bacon he had braised the day before in HONEY BOURBON. He also made us an egg in toast, but did I tell you about the BACON? The only thing that kept me from eating more of it was the fact that I was going running. But that did not stop me that night. Sinfully good.
Carol and I had planned a 5-mile run for Friday morning. We went three. I went 5 Thursday evening. Then, on Easter, we had again planned a long run, and we did 3. We are both a bit creaky right now in training (though hills are getting easier). We decided to hold off on a long run til this weekend so we can make sure we don't get injuries. Chafing season has begun too. Yay!
Then, I made bread dough, went to Hy-Vee, got eggs, boiled the eggs for decorating that we never got to, and cleaned a bit, showered, dressed in a dressy dress, and our company was arriving and bringing yummy wine and yummy deviled eggs (they made the yolks with roasted red peppers, oh yes they did) and dirt cake. So good. Dereck grilled some of our grass-fed steak and we had olives (of course) and cheese, asparagus, lentils and tomatoes, and a lovely salad. It was a great meal. And my body has hated me all day today for what I ate this weekend, but I would do it again.
Today was very low key. Ran 3.3 miles, and we had leftovers for dinner while Dereck got to go eat sushi with a guest speaker. Then, after dinner, Christian and I took the puppy and headed out for the gas station to get pop. As we were passing the run-down school we live across from (that the university owns), I saw Tommy standing, his group of female-12-year-old friends sitting in a circle, and a university police officer writing in a notepad. So, I headed across the grass toward them. I said, "Can I be of assistance?" and she looked at me like I should butt the hell out, so I pointed at Tommy and said, "I am the young man's mother."
She ran my driver's license, which irritated me, but I guess that is what you get when you walk up and say, "I am responsible for HIM." Apparently, someone had called and reported Children! Playing! With large metal pipes! And hitting a concrete wall! and going down some stairs! Oh my!
The cop took down our information, wagged her finger a bit, but ultimately was nice to the kids before letting them go. Yeah, nice to them after one of them had had a panic attack (I discovered later) and another one was still in tears when I got there. The kids were all slightly traumatized, and I don't think they will touch stuff over at the school again. I have to admit, I was slightly impressed with Tommy for standing his ground and literally remaining standing when the girls were sitting.
I have no idea why that was or whether it meant anything at all, but if I were writing a story about Tommy, he would be standing at his full height, arms folded, trying to be cool. That would really say a lot about the character of Tommy in the story: A little bit of cheek (he may have been asked to sit and refused for all I know), and bravado. He was nervous and scared, but ultimately ready to defend himself. He told me after that he could have outrun the cop. This is true. And she would have asked the girls where he lived, and then he would have really been in trouble, and I told him this. I said, "You should be freaked out by this. And don't make me nervous by trying to tell me that you're not." I also explained that even though the kids hadn't damaged anything, nor had that been their intent, it wasn't their property. Even though the school appears to be abandoned, it is not.
Tommy said, "I never thought this [shake down by the police] would happen to me until I was about 23."
I said, "Well, maybe now it won't happen when you're 23."
One can hope.
The cop told the girls she wasn't going to talk to their parents, but in hindsight, after I then went over to check on H, who was home alone and freaked out (I gave her many hugs, told her they hadn't done anything wrong, invited her to come with us, but she was fine staying home), and then called another girl's parents, I thought maybe the cop hadn't realized that a bunch of freaked out kids were going to go home and tell their parents anyway, so maybe it would have been nice to make a little call to explain? I don't know how to reach the parents of two of the other girls, but another neighbor does, and so it goes. Small town. Tommy also remarked, "I wish all this didn't happen so... publicly."
Yeah, no kidding. Small town.
Last week, I drove to Quincy, IL, and back two days in a row to pick up (then drop off) a grad school friend of Dereck's from the train station. He gave a talk here. He got to hear all about how much I hate Missouri and Kirksville on our ride. I said, "I'd show you where you're staying, but that will ruin most of Dereck's tour."
Later I said, "Maybe you guys should bike so it will last longer than 5 minutes."
I'm a terrible person. There are so very many reasons I am going to hell.
But I hope you are well.
The Time of the Roly Polies Has Begun
My six-year-old passes seasons by their bugs
and tells us
April is the time of roly polies.
My three sons and I
walk down to the lagoon,
stop for newborn leaves curled around their branches
like the inner petals of the artichoke
heavy with butter
we ate for supper last night.
The two older boys run to hide til I
burst after them, an elephant,
clump through yellow grasses, boom and bellow,
swipe with open hands.
Overgrown bushes and
clumps of young elms
stand to watch around the dried and leafy oval.
Across the clearing,
the spot I just left,
green and white cloth moves
against the gray-barked trunks.
Two-year-old Tommy, lonely with the sentry trees,
strips his shirt sleeve, calls me back with
one bare arm,
pale as the artichoke
cut at its alabaster heart.
and tells us
April is the time of roly polies.
My three sons and I
walk down to the lagoon,
stop for newborn leaves curled around their branches
like the inner petals of the artichoke
heavy with butter
we ate for supper last night.
The two older boys run to hide til I
burst after them, an elephant,
clump through yellow grasses, boom and bellow,
swipe with open hands.
Overgrown bushes and
clumps of young elms
stand to watch around the dried and leafy oval.
Across the clearing,
the spot I just left,
green and white cloth moves
against the gray-barked trunks.
Two-year-old Tommy, lonely with the sentry trees,
strips his shirt sleeve, calls me back with
one bare arm,
pale as the artichoke
cut at its alabaster heart.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
White Chinook
Often you wake
surrounded by sleeping forms
husband, baby, child
and it is dark.
Wind is blowing
from the back of the house,
you hear bells
on the front porch,
windows shut, front door locked
your bedroom door is closed.
No one answers when you speak
sees you sitting in darkness.
What you hear is sleep
breath and chimes
sound the wind carries
all the way over to the house to you.
surrounded by sleeping forms
husband, baby, child
and it is dark.
Wind is blowing
from the back of the house,
you hear bells
on the front porch,
windows shut, front door locked
your bedroom door is closed.
No one answers when you speak
sees you sitting in darkness.
What you hear is sleep
breath and chimes
sound the wind carries
all the way over to the house to you.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Running out of things to say
I don't know what to write about. I realize I haven't been here for awhile. I could write about the day I spent 6 hours cleaning my house. Or the great dinner party we had that night. Or I could write about the grant I'm writing, and how intimidated I am by budgets. Or, I could write about the contract that is ending in May, and how my nonchalance about it borders on irresponsibility.
I finished The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. I read a crap book during the time it took Amazon to send me the next book in the series, and then, last night, began reading The Girl Who Played With Fire. I am obsessed with Lisbeth Salander, even though the only person I discuss her with is my father. He recommended the books. I want to go to Sweden and be a writer now. Salander is NOT, by the way, a writer in Sweden. She is a goth computer hacker with a harrowing past. But if living in Sweden (and smoking 60 cigarettes a day, by the way, which killed him before he could write all ten books for this series) can help me write like this, sign me up. (Kidding-- everyone knows that to be a truly great writer, you have to go live in the South and be an alcoholic!)
Lisbeth is truly bad ass (and if you ran with me, you would know that I talk about my desire to be bad ass during about 90% of our runs; it has now overcome my desires to have a great ass and to buy a bikini this summer). She has had said harrowing past (which we continue to learn about), yet she is by no means a victim. Lisbeth gets revenge. Tiger Woods would have had a real problem with Lisbeth Salander. She is also a genius. And Salander thinks about more interesting things than I do. I have my loop of thoughts that circle and iterate (kids, husband, coffee, food, Facebook, work, my puppy, my parents, running, and Radical Honesty) rather uselessly. Salander has a photographic memory and has memorized Dimensions in Mathematics and solved Fermat's Last Theorem. She also lives in Grenada and sort of lopes around writing calculations on cocktail napkins and prying into her neighbors' affairs. Granted, she has a lonely, empty, kind of horrific existence, but she is fascinating. And instead of thinking about mathematical proofs or how to improve conditions in Chile or Haiti, I am thinking about someone who doesn't exist.
It's a little demoralizing.
I know people, however, who do not read fiction. And while I can appreciate this, I will always read fiction.
Dereck said something Friday night that honestly astonished me. A friend asked, "What was the first book that made you cry," and as I was searching my memory, Dereck said he didn't think a book has ever made him cry. We will have to fix that directly, and I, apparently, will have to finally read 100 Years of Solitude.
[Tommy just came in before bed, talking about how a character on an episode of the show Community had run forward into her own pepper spray. "She was trying to be a bad ass. More like a dumb ass. But what's the difference, really?" Thanks, son!]
Running is starting to take over. It used to be that I ran so I could keep in shape (now that my medication change has helped me get into shape). I ran so that occasionally, I could eat peanut M&Ms, and still be able to button my pants.
Friday, we ran 2.5 miles. I had had a very slow work out week. Yesterday, we ran what we thought was 7, but was actually 7.7. And I don't mean that we ran 5, walked two. I mean we ran 7 and walked parts of the .7. Then, today, we ran over 3 as our recovery run. Our bodies are breaking down, hopefully to be rebuilt with muscle. My knees hurt. Carol's left calf is tight. Mine has been tight on and off for three years. I am thinking of taking up yoga, as I am stretching now to make sure that my muscles get elongated and not bunchy. Carol (5'2") laughs when I say that I feel short, squat and fat (I am 5'7"). However, Carol's thighs are the size of my wrist.
Our goal for the next two weeks is to run 8 miles each Saturday (we run at least one long run per week, and balance out the rest of the week with 3-to-5 miles depending mostly on time, with one day off) (we have a lovely, flat course for the 8). When we run 9, it will be a personal best for us both. I have to tell her that I am going up to Cedar Falls next weekend with John to see Avenue Q. He got tickets for my birthday LAST year. It's kind of ridiculous when one of your first thoughts is that you will have to work your run around your fun, isn't it?
At the same time, we are snarky on our runs about the middle-aged women (besides us) at races who have sun-and-wind-leathered faces from hours running outside, the women who don't smile, who don't chat with us, and who wear T-Shirts that say, "If you don't puke, you're not running hard enough." What kind of quality of life do they have? I always wear my hair in a ponytail, and I am running out of pants that fit me. They either threaten to fall off, or I have to wear a belt and they just look stupid. But I don't want to buy new pants NOW because I'm in between sizes. Not quite there yet. So, I end up just wearing my jogging clothes all day. I build my days around my runs. I have to plan what I eat (not too much before hand, don't pig out after or you'll GAIN weight while training), my sleep (don't stay up that late; it will ruin your run), and my work schedule all around my runs. Or at least keep them in mind. It's almost like the running is a newborn I have to take constant care of.
I am starting to eat and sleep to run, instead of vice versa. I colored my hair brown in part because it's too much of a time suck to maintain the blonde (also? Too damaging. Also? Ridiculous). What is the point in running all these miles when I just walk around in sweats and a ponytail all day? Carol can't even wear a skirt to church without people commenting on her bony knees and how the veins pop out of her legs. She thinks they are disgusting. I think they are beautiful and bad ass. I can't wear skirts because they are too big now.
I'm not really complaining, you know. For one thing, training for a half-marathon is a choice. For another? It's a privilege. I will be 41 in one month. And I ran almost 8 miles yesterday. That is a gift, my friends.
So, even though, like my friend Libby from High School who reads a lot and is a Dean of Students and has lovely dogs and drinks wine and enjoys the same pleasures (a good meal; a good bath; exercise) that I do, she claims she feels boring, and often, I feel boring too. One of the reasons I don't blog is that I really don't know what to say-- because I'm doing the above-- or because I'm thinking too much or having conversations so private that they both exhaust my desire to write and there is just too much to write, and you don't have the background and context, so where do I begin?
Still here. Time goes by. Things happen. The sun goes up, the sun goes down. Just like always.
I finished The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. I read a crap book during the time it took Amazon to send me the next book in the series, and then, last night, began reading The Girl Who Played With Fire. I am obsessed with Lisbeth Salander, even though the only person I discuss her with is my father. He recommended the books. I want to go to Sweden and be a writer now. Salander is NOT, by the way, a writer in Sweden. She is a goth computer hacker with a harrowing past. But if living in Sweden (and smoking 60 cigarettes a day, by the way, which killed him before he could write all ten books for this series) can help me write like this, sign me up. (Kidding-- everyone knows that to be a truly great writer, you have to go live in the South and be an alcoholic!)
Lisbeth is truly bad ass (and if you ran with me, you would know that I talk about my desire to be bad ass during about 90% of our runs; it has now overcome my desires to have a great ass and to buy a bikini this summer). She has had said harrowing past (which we continue to learn about), yet she is by no means a victim. Lisbeth gets revenge. Tiger Woods would have had a real problem with Lisbeth Salander. She is also a genius. And Salander thinks about more interesting things than I do. I have my loop of thoughts that circle and iterate (kids, husband, coffee, food, Facebook, work, my puppy, my parents, running, and Radical Honesty) rather uselessly. Salander has a photographic memory and has memorized Dimensions in Mathematics and solved Fermat's Last Theorem. She also lives in Grenada and sort of lopes around writing calculations on cocktail napkins and prying into her neighbors' affairs. Granted, she has a lonely, empty, kind of horrific existence, but she is fascinating. And instead of thinking about mathematical proofs or how to improve conditions in Chile or Haiti, I am thinking about someone who doesn't exist.
It's a little demoralizing.
I know people, however, who do not read fiction. And while I can appreciate this, I will always read fiction.
Dereck said something Friday night that honestly astonished me. A friend asked, "What was the first book that made you cry," and as I was searching my memory, Dereck said he didn't think a book has ever made him cry. We will have to fix that directly, and I, apparently, will have to finally read 100 Years of Solitude.
[Tommy just came in before bed, talking about how a character on an episode of the show Community had run forward into her own pepper spray. "She was trying to be a bad ass. More like a dumb ass. But what's the difference, really?" Thanks, son!]
Running is starting to take over. It used to be that I ran so I could keep in shape (now that my medication change has helped me get into shape). I ran so that occasionally, I could eat peanut M&Ms, and still be able to button my pants.
Friday, we ran 2.5 miles. I had had a very slow work out week. Yesterday, we ran what we thought was 7, but was actually 7.7. And I don't mean that we ran 5, walked two. I mean we ran 7 and walked parts of the .7. Then, today, we ran over 3 as our recovery run. Our bodies are breaking down, hopefully to be rebuilt with muscle. My knees hurt. Carol's left calf is tight. Mine has been tight on and off for three years. I am thinking of taking up yoga, as I am stretching now to make sure that my muscles get elongated and not bunchy. Carol (5'2") laughs when I say that I feel short, squat and fat (I am 5'7"). However, Carol's thighs are the size of my wrist.
Our goal for the next two weeks is to run 8 miles each Saturday (we run at least one long run per week, and balance out the rest of the week with 3-to-5 miles depending mostly on time, with one day off) (we have a lovely, flat course for the 8). When we run 9, it will be a personal best for us both. I have to tell her that I am going up to Cedar Falls next weekend with John to see Avenue Q. He got tickets for my birthday LAST year. It's kind of ridiculous when one of your first thoughts is that you will have to work your run around your fun, isn't it?
At the same time, we are snarky on our runs about the middle-aged women (besides us) at races who have sun-and-wind-leathered faces from hours running outside, the women who don't smile, who don't chat with us, and who wear T-Shirts that say, "If you don't puke, you're not running hard enough." What kind of quality of life do they have? I always wear my hair in a ponytail, and I am running out of pants that fit me. They either threaten to fall off, or I have to wear a belt and they just look stupid. But I don't want to buy new pants NOW because I'm in between sizes. Not quite there yet. So, I end up just wearing my jogging clothes all day. I build my days around my runs. I have to plan what I eat (not too much before hand, don't pig out after or you'll GAIN weight while training), my sleep (don't stay up that late; it will ruin your run), and my work schedule all around my runs. Or at least keep them in mind. It's almost like the running is a newborn I have to take constant care of.
I am starting to eat and sleep to run, instead of vice versa. I colored my hair brown in part because it's too much of a time suck to maintain the blonde (also? Too damaging. Also? Ridiculous). What is the point in running all these miles when I just walk around in sweats and a ponytail all day? Carol can't even wear a skirt to church without people commenting on her bony knees and how the veins pop out of her legs. She thinks they are disgusting. I think they are beautiful and bad ass. I can't wear skirts because they are too big now.
I'm not really complaining, you know. For one thing, training for a half-marathon is a choice. For another? It's a privilege. I will be 41 in one month. And I ran almost 8 miles yesterday. That is a gift, my friends.
So, even though, like my friend Libby from High School who reads a lot and is a Dean of Students and has lovely dogs and drinks wine and enjoys the same pleasures (a good meal; a good bath; exercise) that I do, she claims she feels boring, and often, I feel boring too. One of the reasons I don't blog is that I really don't know what to say-- because I'm doing the above-- or because I'm thinking too much or having conversations so private that they both exhaust my desire to write and there is just too much to write, and you don't have the background and context, so where do I begin?
Still here. Time goes by. Things happen. The sun goes up, the sun goes down. Just like always.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Running away with my thoughts
Bah. I'm tired today and a little emotional-- probably hormonal. I can tell I'm starting to make mountains out of molehills, so I am trying to nip these little thought loops in the bud. Sometimes I am a big fan of being a masochist, and making myself upset by the little stories I tell myself. Stories that either used to be true, and now aren't; aren't a big deal; or just are not true at all.
There is a group run (for Kirksville Multisport) this evening at 5:30. I know Carol would like to do it, but she was also looking last night for people who run at her pace-- which is significantly faster during races than mine. So, that means I'm looking at a 6.5 mile run by myself-- or alone in a crowd of people who run faster than I do. I think I'm going to give her a call, but I'll probably run earlier today by myself just so I can clear some cobwebs. I am feeling a little twitchy, like I should get outside and move my body before I can concentrate on thinking work. That's one of the reasons I'm writing this morning, in an effort to clear my head a bit.
So, far with my dad, no news. He should get a call today or Friday with the results of the scan that was done (looking for cancer) on Monday. He said Tuesday was a long day with his finger amputation, and then he dipped his bandage in ketchup at McDonald's on the way home. He then drove himself back up to Salt Lake City yesterday, in spite of the fact that he'd not only had surgery done on his dominant hand, but they also removed cancer cells from his elbow (lymph nodes) and under his arm (same). He claims not to be feeling sore, not needing his pain killers, but I'm not sure a two-hour drive is a good idea anyway. Today they get a day at home, then back up tomorrow to have staples removed. I probably should have gone out this week despite his protests and despite the financial cost. But I didn't. So, move along. I think my brother is going out there this weekend.
Also, as people keep telling me, if he does have more cancer that requires treatment, I'll need to go out. His brother-in-law lives nearby and drove them on Tuesday. But his brother-in-law is older than my dad is. I'm not [trying to be] ageist, but all these old people driving is making me nervous.
The kids are with their dad this weekend. Yesterday, despite being told that there would be a lot of waiting around and boredom, Tommy came to the St. Patrick's Day run. He jogged up to the DuKum with me and Carol. Then, he found some classmates to hang out with before the run. He ran pretty well! He did the 1.5-mile run, and someone handed him a glass of water at the end. He did it in 19 minutes and something seconds. I know this because he says he came in at the same time as Royce, who did the 5K in 19 min 2 seconds.
I did not meet my personal goal of not walking during the race-- but during my first mile, I did it in 10 min 30 seconds (which is quite a bit faster than the 13-minute mile I usually train at); at mile two, I was still well under 22 minutes (so still going faster than 11-minute miles); then I got tired, and had to walk a bit during the third mile, but picked it up and ran the last half-mile hard. My time was 34 minutes, even, as I heard it. Nice, because my time last race was 37 minutes and more than 30 seconds. So, I shaved off some nice time. That wasn't even a goal!
I did meet my goal of not coming in last. In fact, people kept coming in for awhile after I was done. I was also out of breath and tired after the run-- I hadn't really been at the last run, because I didn't run it hard enough. My high school track coach used to get pissed because I'd hold back during my runs. My foot doctor (from 13 years ago when I had one) was at the race wearing a green shirt that said, "If you're not puking, you're not running hard enough." I told Carol, "If I don't feel like crap at the end of this, I'll kick my own ass." So, I felt like I acquitted myself well, despite the walking.
Should *really* *really* just give up the cigarettes for good. I went to karaoke Tuesday night and not only smoked a little, but drank and stayed out late. I smack myself and think, "How much better would my run have been if I *hadn't* done that?"
Last night right after the race, Carol and I were talking about going back out for St. Patrick's Day after we'd gotten our families home after dinner and showered and changed clothes. I called her, almost dead on my feet, at around 9, and we both bailed. I was in bed by 10pm. That, of course, led to being awake for an hour or more in the middle of the night, and now I've been up since 6 a.m., and I would like a nap. Or more coffee. Or something. But at least since I'm writing right now, I am keeping the other stories at bay.
The sun is out, so I think I'll take a shower and walk up to the coffee shop, order some mocha, and see if I can get some more work done on the project I was working on yesterday.
What is new with you?
There is a group run (for Kirksville Multisport) this evening at 5:30. I know Carol would like to do it, but she was also looking last night for people who run at her pace-- which is significantly faster during races than mine. So, that means I'm looking at a 6.5 mile run by myself-- or alone in a crowd of people who run faster than I do. I think I'm going to give her a call, but I'll probably run earlier today by myself just so I can clear some cobwebs. I am feeling a little twitchy, like I should get outside and move my body before I can concentrate on thinking work. That's one of the reasons I'm writing this morning, in an effort to clear my head a bit.
So, far with my dad, no news. He should get a call today or Friday with the results of the scan that was done (looking for cancer) on Monday. He said Tuesday was a long day with his finger amputation, and then he dipped his bandage in ketchup at McDonald's on the way home. He then drove himself back up to Salt Lake City yesterday, in spite of the fact that he'd not only had surgery done on his dominant hand, but they also removed cancer cells from his elbow (lymph nodes) and under his arm (same). He claims not to be feeling sore, not needing his pain killers, but I'm not sure a two-hour drive is a good idea anyway. Today they get a day at home, then back up tomorrow to have staples removed. I probably should have gone out this week despite his protests and despite the financial cost. But I didn't. So, move along. I think my brother is going out there this weekend.
Also, as people keep telling me, if he does have more cancer that requires treatment, I'll need to go out. His brother-in-law lives nearby and drove them on Tuesday. But his brother-in-law is older than my dad is. I'm not [trying to be] ageist, but all these old people driving is making me nervous.
The kids are with their dad this weekend. Yesterday, despite being told that there would be a lot of waiting around and boredom, Tommy came to the St. Patrick's Day run. He jogged up to the DuKum with me and Carol. Then, he found some classmates to hang out with before the run. He ran pretty well! He did the 1.5-mile run, and someone handed him a glass of water at the end. He did it in 19 minutes and something seconds. I know this because he says he came in at the same time as Royce, who did the 5K in 19 min 2 seconds.
I did not meet my personal goal of not walking during the race-- but during my first mile, I did it in 10 min 30 seconds (which is quite a bit faster than the 13-minute mile I usually train at); at mile two, I was still well under 22 minutes (so still going faster than 11-minute miles); then I got tired, and had to walk a bit during the third mile, but picked it up and ran the last half-mile hard. My time was 34 minutes, even, as I heard it. Nice, because my time last race was 37 minutes and more than 30 seconds. So, I shaved off some nice time. That wasn't even a goal!
I did meet my goal of not coming in last. In fact, people kept coming in for awhile after I was done. I was also out of breath and tired after the run-- I hadn't really been at the last run, because I didn't run it hard enough. My high school track coach used to get pissed because I'd hold back during my runs. My foot doctor (from 13 years ago when I had one) was at the race wearing a green shirt that said, "If you're not puking, you're not running hard enough." I told Carol, "If I don't feel like crap at the end of this, I'll kick my own ass." So, I felt like I acquitted myself well, despite the walking.
Should *really* *really* just give up the cigarettes for good. I went to karaoke Tuesday night and not only smoked a little, but drank and stayed out late. I smack myself and think, "How much better would my run have been if I *hadn't* done that?"
Last night right after the race, Carol and I were talking about going back out for St. Patrick's Day after we'd gotten our families home after dinner and showered and changed clothes. I called her, almost dead on my feet, at around 9, and we both bailed. I was in bed by 10pm. That, of course, led to being awake for an hour or more in the middle of the night, and now I've been up since 6 a.m., and I would like a nap. Or more coffee. Or something. But at least since I'm writing right now, I am keeping the other stories at bay.
The sun is out, so I think I'll take a shower and walk up to the coffee shop, order some mocha, and see if I can get some more work done on the project I was working on yesterday.
What is new with you?
Monday, March 15, 2010
Picking Up
Where I left off...
I was so angry about my keyboard last night that I just got off the Internets and went to bed to read. Today, I tried to re-install my keyboard drivers. Fail. Then, I discovered that Dell customer support is via chat-- if you want to have it via phone, you have to pay for the privilege. So, I opted for chat. The representative took temporary control over my computer, and downloaded a new touchpad driver (after uninstalling the old one), and that seems to have fixed the problem.
Of course, with my bad luck with laptops, I immediately assumed that I was at fault for the keyboard's wacky behavior. Fortunately, I was not. Still, as Dereck said, you shouldn't have faulty drivers on a brand new computer. I don't care though. The problem is fixed. And it is turning out that using a PC is sort of like riding a bike. I am remembering how to do this. Though for some reason, I was just typing in Facebook in response to a message, and my keyboard is starting to sound like a typewriter... interesting and possibly alarming. I wonder what key I hit to turn this on. Why can't these things ever be simple? Open the box, take out the computer, plug it in, and Bingo. But no.
So, anyway, enough about my computer (the problem vanished when I first muted my sound and then turned the sound all the way up-- does it have a poltergeist?). In addition to interesting conversations about Truth and the State of Things (do we fear not being loved because we think that the endgame of existence is to be worthy of love? Do we feel unworthy of living if we don't think we are worthy of being loved? Despite the fact that the thoughts appear to be oddly juxtaposed, I do think that everyone who exists deserves to exist-- whether they are loved or not. That seems largely irrelevant. Nice bonus, but not a pre-requisite for life), I am also reading probably the closest thing to a Real Book that I've read in awhile. At my father's recommendation, I picked up The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo at the Denver airport, when I was done with the thriller I'd read on the plane.
These are the four ways in which I know I am reading a Real Book instead of the Usual Crap I read:
We decided to introduce the kids to The Godfather over Spring Break. I am not a film student, but I have seen that movie a bunch of times. And seriously, the more I see it, the more I see IN it. It not only holds up, but I think it gets better as I age and notice things and understand them more deeply. Sam is the only kid who made it through the full length of the movie, which we watched on Friday then Sunday. Michael Corleone really impressed him. As Sam put it, "Michael Corleone is BAD ASS."
Just watching that movie makes me want to go buy some Francis Ford Coppola red wine, because it is delicious. I told Sam that if he thought Michael was hardcore in the first movie, well, hang onto your hat. Dereck has not seen the second movie, so it should be great to watch that one with them both. I think that as far as good movies go, part I and II are equally good movies-- I honestly couldn't say that one was better than the other. The second one might even be a smidge better, technically, but the first one is my favorite. I love the wedding, the scenes in Italy, its wide-sweeping grandeur. I don't really care for the move to Las Vegas in the second movie. But the history and the story are rich and detailed and disturbing. I don't have to be nearly as careful with movies as I do with books. Maybe I just have a more visceral relationship with the written word than I do with images and the heard word.
On top of the conversation, the Godfather viewing, and the book I'm reading, we went to see Crazy Heart yesterday. It is a quiet little movie. To some extent, all of the ways you can make a movie about an alcoholic singer/songwriter have been tapped. This movie definitely had the typical elements of the performer whose personal life falls to pieces due to alcohol (not drugs in this case, unless you count the chainsmoking). But Jeff Bridges and Maggie Gyllenhaal are just great to watch. Dereck said he had read somewhere that the critic thought Gyllenhaal had been miscast, but I thought she was terrific. I'm so glad her work was recognized in her Academy Award nomination. I just like to watch her move, watch her face, watch her think. Jeff Bridges is always terrific (exception: The Fisher King with Robin Williams. I hate that movie almost as much as I hate The Lion King).
So, the point of all of this is just that I've got all sorts of things rattling around my head right now, and that usually makes for a pretty happy Jen.
Sam is texting me that he doesn't feel well. He woke up this morning and asked for a hug because he had such a sore throat. He says he is having trouble focusing. He is at his father's. I replied that he should lie down for a bit. I may keep him home tomorrow just to nip this in the bud.
This morning in the car, Tommy was angry with us for making him change his shirt, so he tore into Christian: "You have officially become WEIRD!"
I said in my best, "Don't even try to talk your way out of this" voice: "Knock it off. I am so tired of you picking on him. Christian has a diagnosis of Asperger's. So, if he is doing things that you find quirky or odd or irritating, it is because he cannot help it. And it's not hurting you or affecting you anyway. Besides, I wouldn't change one thing about Christian."
I wasn't even really thinking about the fact that Christian was listening to all of this, until I saw him wiping his eyes in the rearview mirror. "Thanks, Mom," he said. "I worried that maybe you were irritated by me too."
In all honesty, I have been a tad irritated with him because every day he asks me what my favorite Disney movie is, and he is relentless about taunting me about my hatred of The Lion King. But I am not irritated by his Asperger's or his quirkiness. And I wouldn't change any of them for anything.
People always ask me how the kids are doing. I never know what to say to that. Christian is managing his diabetes well, but I have started to wonder, when he has an unexplained 'high' blood sugar, whether he is cheating a bit (which would be normal for a 13 year old kid, I think). He gets good grades, struggles with math. He likes to write, wants to be a writer, and enjoys watching The Nostalgia Critic on the Internet. He doesn't often speak of it, but I know he struggles socially at school. The other kids don't seem to make fun of him. They ignore him, which may be worse. His speech is still a little hard to understand, so instead of taking the time to try with him, I think it makes them feel less embarrassed just to pretend he hasn't spoken. He is shorter than Tommy, and still has trouble with the motor skills required to tie his shoes. But he is funny and empathic, highly self-aware and intuitive, and sometimes he has a real attitude (namely about bedtime) that I am secretly proud of even as I encourage him to respect me. He is so mild-mannered and sweet that sometimes it's fun to see a little sass.
Tommy has matured incredibly since summer. He still doesn't like to change his shirt, but he does his homework, does his chores, and is a lot less belligerent about both than he was even a year ago. I mean, he is just pleasant about it now. He adores our animals and actively plays with them. He likes to shoot the puppy across the hardwood floor, or make a wheelbarrow with him. Or just carry him around and put the puppy into people's faces, which I have to have chats with him about: "The dog may be floppy like a beanie baby, but he is a live animal, and he could snap and decide to bit someone when you do that." The dog really is so mellow it's ridiculous, though. All of the boys are still very affectionate, unless it's right before school and they are getting out of the van. Christian isn't bothered or embarrassed by blowing me kisses, but Sam and Tommy both pretend they have no idea who was driving that van they just hopped out of. Tommy has a natural gift with metaphor and simile that thrills my writer soul. He is also almost as tall as I am, and has started bathing voluntarily.
Sam. Such a little adult, but still asks his mother for hugs. I embrace every single one. When I think about Sam leaving for college in two-and-a-half years, my throat starts to close. Sam is the one I still have the most difficult time separating myself from. He is a mini-me. He looks strikingly like I did as a teen (poor him). He is kind, mature, scary smart, highly irritable, bossy to his brothers, a reluctant pet owner, introverted, shy, with a great sense of humor. The things that seem to concern him most in this world are the idea that someday we may develop the technology to download ourselves into computers-- that humans will some day lose their humanity. He has heavy heavy ideas weighing on his soul. He wants to change the world, even though I don't know that he realizes that that is what he is suggesting when he speaks of how we just need to cure AIDS already and move onto other things. He is furious with the government for not making that a priority. He is a true socialist in his soul, and I would not be surprised if he chooses not to live in America when he is finished with school. That both pleases me and breaks my heart. One of the things that astonishes me and compliments me most in this world is how much Sam likes me and seeks out my company. I don't know that I could ask for a greater gift as a mother. All three boys are like that-- but Sam is the oldest, and the fact that he still feels this way-- there are no words.
I don't really know how I got from point A to point Zebra. But that is how the boys are.
My father, today, is having dye injected into his bloodstream so he can be screened for cancer, to see if his melanoma has infiltrated more than just his finger. I am trying not to think about that.
Running is still going well, but I'm reaching the stage where I am getting hungrier, need more food. Blast it. Today, Carol had to get back by 4pm to leave for a kid's basketball game. I was finishing up a project and we didn't get on the road til 3:35, so we did our 2.5 mile route. And dammit if we didn't get back by 4. I am tickled pink. Carol has been tired, putting in extremely long hours at work. She commented today, "You are running faster than I am. I am having a hard time keeping up. You have now become The Dom." It's true that I am usually the driving force now behind our runs. I have noticed that when she is tired, she won't call me for a run. When she is on her game, she will call by 1pm, regardless of the day, to discuss running plans. So, if I haven't heard from her by 3pm, I know that she thinks she can wait me out, that I won't call and that day we won't run. This winter, I have surprised us both by not only calling, but by being the one pushing us to go farther, faster. I have to admit that my days are mostly centered now around these runs. It's a gift I give myself, and I am pretty selfish about it.
That's Life in Lake K-Vegas. How are you?
I was so angry about my keyboard last night that I just got off the Internets and went to bed to read. Today, I tried to re-install my keyboard drivers. Fail. Then, I discovered that Dell customer support is via chat-- if you want to have it via phone, you have to pay for the privilege. So, I opted for chat. The representative took temporary control over my computer, and downloaded a new touchpad driver (after uninstalling the old one), and that seems to have fixed the problem.
Of course, with my bad luck with laptops, I immediately assumed that I was at fault for the keyboard's wacky behavior. Fortunately, I was not. Still, as Dereck said, you shouldn't have faulty drivers on a brand new computer. I don't care though. The problem is fixed. And it is turning out that using a PC is sort of like riding a bike. I am remembering how to do this. Though for some reason, I was just typing in Facebook in response to a message, and my keyboard is starting to sound like a typewriter... interesting and possibly alarming. I wonder what key I hit to turn this on. Why can't these things ever be simple? Open the box, take out the computer, plug it in, and Bingo. But no.
So, anyway, enough about my computer (the problem vanished when I first muted my sound and then turned the sound all the way up-- does it have a poltergeist?). In addition to interesting conversations about Truth and the State of Things (do we fear not being loved because we think that the endgame of existence is to be worthy of love? Do we feel unworthy of living if we don't think we are worthy of being loved? Despite the fact that the thoughts appear to be oddly juxtaposed, I do think that everyone who exists deserves to exist-- whether they are loved or not. That seems largely irrelevant. Nice bonus, but not a pre-requisite for life), I am also reading probably the closest thing to a Real Book that I've read in awhile. At my father's recommendation, I picked up The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo at the Denver airport, when I was done with the thriller I'd read on the plane.
These are the four ways in which I know I am reading a Real Book instead of the Usual Crap I read:
- It took me a bit to get into it. I started it, then put it down for a couple of nights and was grumpy because I was a little bored by it.
- I have absolutely no idea what is going to happen. The plot is not predictable or formulaic.
- It's about twice the length of the Usual Crap.
- It's going to give me nightmares.
We decided to introduce the kids to The Godfather over Spring Break. I am not a film student, but I have seen that movie a bunch of times. And seriously, the more I see it, the more I see IN it. It not only holds up, but I think it gets better as I age and notice things and understand them more deeply. Sam is the only kid who made it through the full length of the movie, which we watched on Friday then Sunday. Michael Corleone really impressed him. As Sam put it, "Michael Corleone is BAD ASS."
Just watching that movie makes me want to go buy some Francis Ford Coppola red wine, because it is delicious. I told Sam that if he thought Michael was hardcore in the first movie, well, hang onto your hat. Dereck has not seen the second movie, so it should be great to watch that one with them both. I think that as far as good movies go, part I and II are equally good movies-- I honestly couldn't say that one was better than the other. The second one might even be a smidge better, technically, but the first one is my favorite. I love the wedding, the scenes in Italy, its wide-sweeping grandeur. I don't really care for the move to Las Vegas in the second movie. But the history and the story are rich and detailed and disturbing. I don't have to be nearly as careful with movies as I do with books. Maybe I just have a more visceral relationship with the written word than I do with images and the heard word.
On top of the conversation, the Godfather viewing, and the book I'm reading, we went to see Crazy Heart yesterday. It is a quiet little movie. To some extent, all of the ways you can make a movie about an alcoholic singer/songwriter have been tapped. This movie definitely had the typical elements of the performer whose personal life falls to pieces due to alcohol (not drugs in this case, unless you count the chainsmoking). But Jeff Bridges and Maggie Gyllenhaal are just great to watch. Dereck said he had read somewhere that the critic thought Gyllenhaal had been miscast, but I thought she was terrific. I'm so glad her work was recognized in her Academy Award nomination. I just like to watch her move, watch her face, watch her think. Jeff Bridges is always terrific (exception: The Fisher King with Robin Williams. I hate that movie almost as much as I hate The Lion King).
So, the point of all of this is just that I've got all sorts of things rattling around my head right now, and that usually makes for a pretty happy Jen.
Sam is texting me that he doesn't feel well. He woke up this morning and asked for a hug because he had such a sore throat. He says he is having trouble focusing. He is at his father's. I replied that he should lie down for a bit. I may keep him home tomorrow just to nip this in the bud.
This morning in the car, Tommy was angry with us for making him change his shirt, so he tore into Christian: "You have officially become WEIRD!"
I said in my best, "Don't even try to talk your way out of this" voice: "Knock it off. I am so tired of you picking on him. Christian has a diagnosis of Asperger's. So, if he is doing things that you find quirky or odd or irritating, it is because he cannot help it. And it's not hurting you or affecting you anyway. Besides, I wouldn't change one thing about Christian."
I wasn't even really thinking about the fact that Christian was listening to all of this, until I saw him wiping his eyes in the rearview mirror. "Thanks, Mom," he said. "I worried that maybe you were irritated by me too."
In all honesty, I have been a tad irritated with him because every day he asks me what my favorite Disney movie is, and he is relentless about taunting me about my hatred of The Lion King. But I am not irritated by his Asperger's or his quirkiness. And I wouldn't change any of them for anything.
People always ask me how the kids are doing. I never know what to say to that. Christian is managing his diabetes well, but I have started to wonder, when he has an unexplained 'high' blood sugar, whether he is cheating a bit (which would be normal for a 13 year old kid, I think). He gets good grades, struggles with math. He likes to write, wants to be a writer, and enjoys watching The Nostalgia Critic on the Internet. He doesn't often speak of it, but I know he struggles socially at school. The other kids don't seem to make fun of him. They ignore him, which may be worse. His speech is still a little hard to understand, so instead of taking the time to try with him, I think it makes them feel less embarrassed just to pretend he hasn't spoken. He is shorter than Tommy, and still has trouble with the motor skills required to tie his shoes. But he is funny and empathic, highly self-aware and intuitive, and sometimes he has a real attitude (namely about bedtime) that I am secretly proud of even as I encourage him to respect me. He is so mild-mannered and sweet that sometimes it's fun to see a little sass.
Tommy has matured incredibly since summer. He still doesn't like to change his shirt, but he does his homework, does his chores, and is a lot less belligerent about both than he was even a year ago. I mean, he is just pleasant about it now. He adores our animals and actively plays with them. He likes to shoot the puppy across the hardwood floor, or make a wheelbarrow with him. Or just carry him around and put the puppy into people's faces, which I have to have chats with him about: "The dog may be floppy like a beanie baby, but he is a live animal, and he could snap and decide to bit someone when you do that." The dog really is so mellow it's ridiculous, though. All of the boys are still very affectionate, unless it's right before school and they are getting out of the van. Christian isn't bothered or embarrassed by blowing me kisses, but Sam and Tommy both pretend they have no idea who was driving that van they just hopped out of. Tommy has a natural gift with metaphor and simile that thrills my writer soul. He is also almost as tall as I am, and has started bathing voluntarily.
Sam. Such a little adult, but still asks his mother for hugs. I embrace every single one. When I think about Sam leaving for college in two-and-a-half years, my throat starts to close. Sam is the one I still have the most difficult time separating myself from. He is a mini-me. He looks strikingly like I did as a teen (poor him). He is kind, mature, scary smart, highly irritable, bossy to his brothers, a reluctant pet owner, introverted, shy, with a great sense of humor. The things that seem to concern him most in this world are the idea that someday we may develop the technology to download ourselves into computers-- that humans will some day lose their humanity. He has heavy heavy ideas weighing on his soul. He wants to change the world, even though I don't know that he realizes that that is what he is suggesting when he speaks of how we just need to cure AIDS already and move onto other things. He is furious with the government for not making that a priority. He is a true socialist in his soul, and I would not be surprised if he chooses not to live in America when he is finished with school. That both pleases me and breaks my heart. One of the things that astonishes me and compliments me most in this world is how much Sam likes me and seeks out my company. I don't know that I could ask for a greater gift as a mother. All three boys are like that-- but Sam is the oldest, and the fact that he still feels this way-- there are no words.
I don't really know how I got from point A to point Zebra. But that is how the boys are.
My father, today, is having dye injected into his bloodstream so he can be screened for cancer, to see if his melanoma has infiltrated more than just his finger. I am trying not to think about that.
Running is still going well, but I'm reaching the stage where I am getting hungrier, need more food. Blast it. Today, Carol had to get back by 4pm to leave for a kid's basketball game. I was finishing up a project and we didn't get on the road til 3:35, so we did our 2.5 mile route. And dammit if we didn't get back by 4. I am tickled pink. Carol has been tired, putting in extremely long hours at work. She commented today, "You are running faster than I am. I am having a hard time keeping up. You have now become The Dom." It's true that I am usually the driving force now behind our runs. I have noticed that when she is tired, she won't call me for a run. When she is on her game, she will call by 1pm, regardless of the day, to discuss running plans. So, if I haven't heard from her by 3pm, I know that she thinks she can wait me out, that I won't call and that day we won't run. This winter, I have surprised us both by not only calling, but by being the one pushing us to go farther, faster. I have to admit that my days are mostly centered now around these runs. It's a gift I give myself, and I am pretty selfish about it.
That's Life in Lake K-Vegas. How are you?
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Candles in the dark
I do want to talk about Kairos more sometime when I can think more about it. Just a quick thought, stealing more from Standing at the Cor...
