Perked coffee and random report-out

The other morning, THS got up early and made some coffee to take to work. The stuff they have there is crap, and he just wanted a good cup of jo for once. I stayed in bed, dozing, and the smell of the coffee brewing brought back the most amazing memory: I was a pre-kindergarten child again, waking up to the sound of my mother's CorningWare stovetop percolator and the rich scent of coffee. There was no sense of needing to start my day. I was so young that there was no reason to get up, except maybe to go see if mom was making pancakes for breakfast, but I was still tired. So I stayed cozy under the covers, dozing and listening to the gurgle of the percolator. I am so happy I remembered this. It's such a comfort.

THS has the ability to get up 15 minutes before he needs to leave the house and be dressed and ready with five minutes to spare. He doesn't even need caffeine. This amazes me. I'm so not capable of that. I need a minimum of 90 minutes: 30 to get up and make coffee; 30 to stumble around sipping the coffee and waiting for the synapse ports to re-align; and 30 to get dressed and get my things together. THS learned a while ago that if I'm rushed out of the house in the morning, it's best that he does the driving.

Sudden Topic Change Alert! This week I learned how to knit cables. This makes me very pleased and smug, but also kind of skeeves me out because now I'm really one of those women who knit. It's one thing if you get down stockinette stitch and whap out a few scarves. It's even OK if you throw in some moss-stitch edging and move along to caps or little things for babies. But learn to cable and you've truly gone over. I'm afraid that's what's happened to me. I've grown rather obsessed with knitting, and this puts me in the awkward position of wanting to knit something for everyone I know. If I were you, I'd be nervous. So here's the deal: If I ever make you something that you feel you need to hide and only wear when you know you'll be seeing me (at your house and not in public), you have my permission to give it back and ask me to never do that again. 

Another new experience this week: I took a Pilates class yesterday. It was grand. I felt very tall and centered and strong and graceful for an hour afterward, and then I was just flipping SORE all over for the next 12 hours. And tonight I went to the gym to meet my trainer and he put me through one of the harder workouts of my go-meet-the-trainer career. It was brutal. Right now I feel like reanimated day-old roadkill. I believe I will need more than the required minimum amount of time to get up and moving tomorrow morning.

Song for You Far Away

Now and again I mourn for dear ones who are no longer near, whom I can no longer see, and the ache is deep and keen. When loved ones die, we mourn as well, but differently, usually with some kind of resolution. Those who still live, but at remove, leave a longing that's more difficult to resolve. For me, it's not a pining, but more like an open ticket: I wonder where they live. If they have love. I hope for their happiness. I miss them, and miss them, and miss them. This grief for the living lies below the ground of my day-to-day, and over time I've integrated it. When it springs to stream, I look up and draw comfort from the encompassing sky. If I'm in public, I hum; if I'm at home, I sing aloud the songs that remind me of the ones who've come to mind. Sometimes it's Joni Mitchell's "Black Crow." Sometimes it's Ella's "Blue Room." Often it's James Taylor: This is a song for you, far away, far away. This is a song for you, far away from me. 

+++

We sold my blue Subaru yesterday and bask in the warmth of Mr. Gore's smile. I tend to attach memories to things, and so I was wistful to see it go. It was the first car I bought on my own. I drove my sweet dog around in it--in fact, I got that model because I had a dog. The Forester moved me to Los Angeles and back, and carried me on long road trips to see and care for my mom. But I gathered those memories to me as I vacuumed the gray upholstery, fished flotsam from under the seats, and wiped down every surface so the new owner could have a clean car to drive. Then I closed the door and turned over the keys. 

I've never shared a single vehicle. I'll drive it the most during work days, since I have meetings to get to at so many different facilities. But there'll also be days when I work from home and THS takes the car, and weekend days when we have different plans. But I'm sure we'll be just fine. We live in a metropolitan area that has a rapid-transit system, an electric bus system, the famous trolleys, and a commuter rail. Plus, in a pinch, there's Zip Car. It's a compact city, and I love walking to do my errands. The final benefit: our bank account will be $400 richer every month. Ka-ching!

Making Al Gore Happy

A little while ago, THS and I decided to become a one-car couple. Because we both commute, and because we'd both been single for so long, we hadn't thought about how car-rich we were. But THS found out he could take BART to a shuttle, which would take him right to his company's front door. We figured out that our weekend plans would seldom require us to have two cars--and that when it were to happen, we'd be able to rent a ZIP car. So, which car to get rid of? It made sense to offload the one that has the most miles, which is my Subaru Forester. I've had it since 2001, and I've put 138,000 miles on it. Fortunately my average weekly mileage won't be nearly the same going forward as it was over the last five years, so THS' Outback won't suffer nearly the abuse. I don't have to drive for work as much, and I'm making very few trips down to Santa Barbara these days. Anyway, one of THS' coworkers is going to test-drive my car tomorrow. We're hoping he'll grab it, since that'd be the easiest possible scenario. 

In other news, I just made a tasty Italian soup and posted the recipe, along with my comments and a photo, over in Loretta Cooks! 

Oy vey. That is all.

Really. It's just been an oy vey last couple of weeks. The Hunky Scientist is taking his sick foot into his primary care physician on Friday. I didn't tell you about his sick foot. It's been festering for a few weeks now, and (a) he could not solve it himself using a needle and a bunch of hydrogen peroxide; also (b) it finally started bothering him enough that he decided to seek real medical help. Thank the pantheon. Work has been too worky for my liking. Way too much tedious stuff-I-can-d0-sleeping and not enough challenge. I love my job, but I've grown into it. I love my boss, but she's gotten so harried she may just leave before I do. And my department, though wonderful, is not what it used to be (reason my boss is harried). Promotions have been rumored for a while, but have not materialized. I'm hoping this will all be resolved this calendar year. If not, I'm going to have to start job-searching within my company. Lastly, we decided this last week to rent my mother's house to my niece and her pal, who'll share it with my older brother. The girls are starting college and need somewhere reasonable to stay while they look for work and get themselves settled into living on their own for the first time in their lives. I'm all for this and glad we have the place to offer and the means to offer it to them on the cheap. However: it means that for the first time ever, I am homeless in my own home town. Oy.

On a lighter note, I've posted anew (brief, but worth reading) in Loretta Cooks. See link at right.

Holy Shmoly. Nobody else die for a while, OK?

At the end of this three-day holiday weekend, I'll be flying to Ontario, then driving to Palm Desert to attend the funeral of my cousin's husband, who died this week after a long battle with ALS. I found out about that two days ago. Yesterday I found out my step-grandfather died in Santa Barbara. We've been estranged for more than 20 years, but I'm sad that he died. I do have some good memories of him from my childhood. It'd be awkward to attend that funeral, but I'm sore in my heart for my aunt, who's having to deal with losing her dad, and her kids, who lost their grandfather. This afternoon I found out a close colleague's father died yesterday. I made a note in my calendar to sit down and write her a condolence letter the morning after I get back from the funeral in Palm Desert. Then I packed up my computer and notebook and left work. On the way home, I saw a male mallard standing beside his mate, who'd been hit and killed by a car, nudging her desperately with his bill. Mallards mate for life, so when I saw this, it just topped everything off and I dropped into a dreary funk. Hey out there. Everyone I know? Yes, you. No more dying for a while, OK? Just cut that out.

Don't pick up

OK, my first cranky-ranty post. One thing that really yanks my chain is when I call someone and they pick up the phone just long enough to tell me they can't talk. They're on the train, or they're with friends, or they have someone else on the other line, but they can' t talk with me now. And rather than just let the call go to voice mail, they somehow feel the need to interrupt whatever they're doing or whatever convo they're having just to say, basically, "I don't have time for you." (This has happened to me about a zillion times just this month, so if you're a culprit don't think this blog has been written just for you. It's for everyone I know.) Every time it happens, I hang up the phone and think "OK, why did they even pick up?" And If I'm meeting with a friend and they actually pick up the phone and say "I can't talk with you, I'm with a friend," I always think crankier-than-Ms.-Manners thoughts.

So, for those of you who know me, if I show up in your caller ID, and you don't have time to talk, you have my permission to let my call go to voice mail. That's why it's there, after all. It's much more pleasant to leave a message and think of nice future chats than to hear "Hi! Sorry, I can't talk right now." Can't talk right now? Then don't talk right now. 'Nuff said.