MMMMMmm...vodka

It's autumn in San Francisco, which means that we finally have our summer. It was in the 90s here in the city today (oh: and we had an earthquake last night, proving once and for all that my mother was right -- there is such a thing as earthquake weather). Our loft does not have air conditioning, so around 12:30 we gave up and walked downtown and took cool shelter at Westfield Center. Which is probably spelled Westfield Centre, but since we are not in England, and since I'm doing the spelling.... Anyway: we shopped. We considered a movie, but decided against it. We at summery salad. We shopped some more. My husband is a champion shopper. It was fun watching him try things on. We'd disappear together into a dressing room, and I'd inwardly titter at the "God I hope they don't get out of line in there" looks we'd get from the attendants. We did not get out of line. He got four shirts, three pair of pants, and a sweater. I got a sweater. It was not my day for finding Fall wardrobe additions, which is a pity because I'm getting pretty low on clothing that fits. (This is good. Ballast ditching is working.) Anyway, then we walked back home with a stopover at our local, The Chieftan, for a Stella Artois. We were on a roll once we got home, so we graduated from beer to vodka and cranberry juice with a splash of orange juice, which goes down frightfully easily. I am violating my "don't drink and blog" rule. MMmmm. Vodka.

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I have a churchly conundrum. Next weekend my older brother is visiting me, and that Sunday a new priest is being ordained at my church. Greek Orthodox ordinations are pretty special, and it's not often one comes along, so I 'd like to see this one. Plus, the emergency backup priest, Fr. Pete (we call him Pete to distinguish him from the main priest, Fr. Peter), is super-cool. Example: during our recent Greek festival, I found myself serving him coffee from the Greek Coffee Bar and talking to him as if he were a regular Joe. And he was responding as if he were a regular Joe. I kept zooming outside myself and observing "You're having a normal, offbeat conversation with this guy, and he's a priest." It was pretty cool. And because I like this guy, I'd like to attend his ordination. However, my brother -- who is slightly autistic and comes to visit me for no other reason than to indulge his obsessive record collecting -- would be bored silly. So, I have a choice to make. Eat pancakes with my brother, or let my brother sleep in and eat pancakes alone while I go to the liturgy and ordination. Hmmm.

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Speaking of Greek things, I didn't dish about the Greek festival. It was fun! This is probably because I worked only one day of the three. I sold jewelry from noon until 4, and then went and sold Greek coffee until 8. I had the most fun selling coffee. Whenever anyone came up and ordered Turkish coffee, I'd say "Excuse me?" and when they ordered Turkish coffee again, I'd point emphatically toward the door and say "Out!" Actually, I like Turkish coffee much more than Greek coffee, and I stand by my opinion that Greeks can't brew coffee to save their lamb-loving asses. To get a decent cup of coffee or espresso in Greece, you must climb on a ferry or airplane and go to Italy. Anyway, it was incredibly busy. There were lines outside the door for our Greek dinner offerings, after which (of course) people streamed in for dessert. And the desserts were many and tooth-achingly sweet: baklava, melomacarona, galactoboureko, kourambiethes, koulourakia. It's impossible to eat these without something to wash them down with, and so we were inundated with coffee requests. Time and again, I'd spoon powdered coffee and sugar into the briki, add water, stir, then hold the briki over the heat until it foamed up, let it subside, heat it again until it foamed, them pour it into the tiny cups, making sure each one had a topping of "cremaki" (a little foam). For $1 extra, we'd add a shot of Metaxa. One guy kept coming by and ordering Greek coffee and Metaxa, then asking us to hold the Greek coffee. After my shift, I headed out into the still-crowded plaka area to buy some souvlaki and giro to take home for dinner. I hung around the back of the booths like a hopeful puppy until someone took my money and thrust warm, foil-wrapped packets into my hands, and then I shouldered my way through the human swarm, walked a few blocks to my car, and made my peaceful way home. 

Catching up

I wrote about the anniversary of Women's Suffrage here in the states, and then got really busy and then got kind of sick (headache, fever; the fever's gone), and missed posting about Dr. King. So, I'll refer you to what my cousin had to say. She's good with the words.

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No, reading my blog does not substitute for giving me a call or sending me an email. Remember: I want to know what's happening with you, too.

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Sarah Palin? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh. *whew*. That was a good one. But wait. Those guys are RIGHT. I have ovaries therefore I must vote McCain-Palin, because I have to stand up for my own kind and get a woman--any woman--into the White House. It wasn't about Hilary, it was about sisterhood. Yes, I really am as ignorant, sheep-like and tractable as the McCain camp assumes I am. Um...not. If I wasn't still laughing so hard, I'd be insulted. Instead, I'm just bitterly amused.

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I'm off soon to work at my church's annual Greek festival. I'll be there, hawking jewelry and Greek coffee, from 11 a.m. to 8 p.m. For my labor, I will pay myself with good Greek food. Yum. 

Suffer the women to vote

My dear women family members and friends: On this day in 1920, women gained the right to vote in these United States. According to today's Writer's Almanac, "Secretary of State Bainbridge Colby signed the proclamation that morning at 8 a.m. at his home. There was no ceremony of any kind. ... Colby just finished his coffee, and signed the document with a regular, steel pen." With that, half of America's population was freed to help determine their own destiny and that of their families, their towns and cities, their counties and states and their country. For suffrage we have a long list of people to thank. And we can thank them by voting, at every opportunity afforded to us; by teaching our nieces and our daughters to vote; by encouraging our jaded and wearied friends to vote; by hosting a polling station. We all are fortunate to be able to determine our own governance. We fought for that right in the Revolutionary War. But women had to battle twice, and they won their fight on August 26, 1920. I care deeply about who becomes our next president, who will sit in our Senates and Houses, and what are new laws will and won't be. But for whom and what you vote doesn't matter to me so much as I am concerned that you cast your ballots. Now, while there's still time to research candidates and issues, arm youselves with knowledge. And please, on November 4, vote.

Breaking for Dessert

Poetry writing is much harder than short-story writing. (It's also more satisfying--though I don't see myself dumping short stories in favor of poetry. More likely, I'll combine them somehow.) But writing a title for a poem I've been working on is turning out to be even tougher. I nearly gave my latest effort a title way too similar to that of one penned by Robert Frost. Erk. Thank GOD for Google. I find myself working on a short story and a poem in alternate cycles of sweat and research and muttered cursing. I like them both, which is a nice change of pace. I'm down in the weeds, hacking away and I'm hoping what comes out of all this is two decent efforts. 

Enough about writing. Back to procrastination! I must tell you about possibly the best dessert you could ever have on a summer evening. You need two things (besides a bowl and a spoon):

1. Very good-quality coffee ice cream (Turkish is best. Don't tell my Greek relatives I said so.)

2. Chocolate port (Recommended brand: Stanley Lambert's Choc-a-Bloc. It's Australian.)

Put two scoops of ice cream (one if it's late evening and you are sensitive to caffeine) into a cup or bowl and drizzle chocolate port over to taste. I use a jigger full. This is not a float; it's a sundae. But you won't need any whipped cream or nuts. Just the ice cream and booze. This is so good I do a little dance just thinking about it. I hope you like it as much as I do.

Researching instead of blogging

I haven't posted in a little while because my blogging time has been taken up with research. I'm writing my first short story that requires some earnest digging around. So I've been reading up on WWII info, particularly on battling in and around Huertgen Forest in Germany. On top of that, work has been particularly involved lately. I'll get back here and post again soon. I've got to catch you up on the weekend trip to the Reno area we just came back from. But right now I've got to get on the freeway and get over to Oakland for a work-related class. Joy.

Carb coma

I made macaroni and cheese tonight using a recipe from epicurious.com. I haven't made mac and cheese in so very long. This one had intense cheese flavor, just the right creamy texture, and a decadent crumb-cheese topping. Really, I wanted to just put it on the floor and roll around in it. But because I detest mopping and was famished after a monster weight workout, I ate a bowl of it instead. And now I am pleasantly sleepy. Mmmmmm.

Speed bag! Right cross! Front kick! Wait. What?

In an effort to mix things up a bit at the gym tonight, I went to a kick boxing class. The class was taught by a woman named Libby. Libby has a negative percentage of body fat, the enthusiasm of a cheer leader squad captain, and the energy of a chihuahua on speed. Plus she has a perfect tan. She is a tad frightening. Kick boxing class isn't all about just kicking and shadow boxing. No. There is line dancing involved, too. I could never line dance. I was always the person looking around and going "Wait. Which arm should be I be pointing with? What direction? Oh crap, now everyone's going the other way." This distresses me mightily. Anyway, I staggered through through 45 minutes, sweat like hell, and didn't kick anyone or barrel into any walls. For this I am to be commended. 

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. 

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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.

More kitchen blather, plus caffeine regret

My second food-blog post details my failure at making mint-chocolate-chip ice cream. To learn from my failure, click on "Loretta Cooks!" at right. Yes, I am up late. Make that early. This is because I drank a Coke Zero before my weight workout last night--an idiot move that gave me a jolt of macho-girl endurance on the bench, but that will make me a zombie at work today. Argh...

Knitting for other people's babies

I didn't get a chance to have babies of my own. Revision: I had many chances to become a single mother and decided not to go that route. Now that I'm finally married, I'm pretty sure conceiving a child is not something I'm capable of doing. And it's not likely we'll adopt. SO....  I get as much time with my nieces as possible, and I knit for other people's impending children. Right now, I'm knitting a little sweater for my pal Liz's baby. We don't know yet if it will be a boy or a girl. Revision: I know it's going to be a boy; they prefer not to know nor guess. Anyway, since I'm not supposed to have any idea of this baby's sex, I chose a nice light-green yarn and I've been knitting off and on for a few weeks.  I was four-fifths of the way through before I figured out the pattern had some serious mistakes, and I had to rip out half my work. I Googled the book's title, and found (bingo!) the author has posted multiple pattern corrections. I printed out the new sweater pattern, began work again, and am now nearly where I was when I had to rip back. Whew! A few days ago I met another friend, Shannon, who is also expecting a baby. She's a gorgeous pregnant lady (she's beautiful when she's not pregnant, too). She handed me some yarn a friend of hers had spun and asked me to make something--anything--from it. It's pretty chunky yarn. Too thick to make baby clothes out of. I'm going to haul it into my favorite yarn shop and ask their advice. Maybe it'll make a nice baby sling, or a nursing pillow. We shall see. It's a gorgeous purple color, and I can't wait to get something started with it. Meanwhile, some other friends, Lisa and Erich, have a brilliant toddler boy, Truman, who really needs a sweater for this coming fall. I'm thinking stripes, but I need to go ask him what his favorite colors are before I start work. Maybe something in green, blue and orange, with little donkey and elephant buttons, to celebrate the success of his daddy's book.

Poetry of sorrow

Today is a crying day. I haven't had one in such a very long while. Years, really. What's frustrating is that the thing that actually got me crying is not the thing I was crying about. It was a bastard coworker who started the waterworks. He was being the world's worst listener and the planet's foremost controlling jerk. Luckily, it was a phone meeting and I held it together long enough to (a) make my points, (b) promise follow-up, and (c) not let my voice quaver. Then I hung up and cried and cried. BASTARD. I was furious. Good thing I'm working from home today. I went up, cried some more while taking a shower, and then came downstairs, made a snack and a vodka on the rocks and drank during work hours for the first time EVer. Yes, I'm that much of a dork.

But what really started me down that weepy path was a phone convo I'd had a half hour earlier with my second cousin, Deb, whose husband, Joe, is dying--right now--from ALS. He's at home, and she and their other family are around him. He's been actively dying for about a week now. It's a strange term, "actively dying." What you're doing is living, until you're not anymore. But, whatever. It could be any moment, and I feel so awful for her. And the phone conversation really connected me powerfully with how I was feeling when my mom was dying.

Anyway, I stopped after that one drink, and kept working. It's Friday. I won't have to deal with that wretched person again until Monday, by which time my bad-assedness will be back in full force.

A couple of days ago I started writing a poem about those who stand watch as their loved ones pass. Eventually, we're all on one side or the other of that little scenario, so I suppose it's a poem for everyone. When it's worth letting anyone else see, I'll post it.

Happy weekend.

On my own

My husband is away visiting a close friend who's graduating from a Ph.D. program at long last. So for the first time in a long while (and the first time since we married), I have several days on my own. I've been away for two days at a conference in San Jose. This afternoon on the way back, I stopped and bought summer clothing at the Stanford outdoor shopping center Palo Alto. Turns out on Thursdays in summertime there is live jazz starting at 5 p.m. People bring low-backed folding chairs and picnics. Since I didn't have anyone at home expecting me (except possibly a hungry cat), I picked up a sandwich (my favorite kind; baguette with a little meat, a little cheese, a swipe of butter and no condiments) and an iced tea and sat by a fountain and listened and ate an early supper. The weather was balmy. The band was skilled. Small children chased each other around and older people smiled at the good fortune to be where they were at that particular moment, and they tapped their feet in time to the music. After a while I collected my bags, finished my drive home, brought in the mail, fed the creatures and let the feathered ones out to flap their wings a little. Now I'm catching up on my reading and I'm sipping a little dessert wine. The birds have their heads tucked back under their wings. Outside the city makes its downtown noises. Here inside, the house is quiet. 

Cooking Side Blog Commences

I started my latest side blog. It's called Lavender Basil Vanilla Thyme. The link is below right (Loretta Cooks!). Inaugural recipe: sugar cookies. Life is good. I have more to write about, but I'm too busy baking and eating sugar cookies (with a tall glass of milk) right now. I'll catch you up soon.

Happy Birthday to THS!

It is Memorial Day. I am remembering and memorializing. I am also cooking my husband's (The Hunky Scientist's) birthday dinner. It's his birthday today. It's been a birthday weekend for him, starting with a little barbecue and friend Donna's house in Friday. Another pal, Wayne, was there, which made it even more fun. We had steaks, baked sweet potatoes, and grilled asparagus. For dessert, Donna served Bob's favorite ice cream: Coffee. she put a candle in his. Sweet! Then on Saturday night we went to Masa's here in S.F. It's one of the swankiest and expensivest in town. We met more friends, Susan and Peter, there and had a great time. Sue and Bob got a wine pairing to go with the six-course tasting menu we all ordered. Peter and I were designated drivers and so we made do with water and little swiped sips of wine. The food and wine were wonderful (we loved their sommelier) and the service was outstanding, as it should be. Yesterday was a prep day for today. I made pasta in the morning, and went grocery shopping. Today cooking began in earnest. I started with a squash soup and mint-parsley pistou. They're now cooling in the refrigerator. Then I cleaned all the salad greens and sliced and bagged some cucumber for green salad. The fresh-grown tomato I'll leave until last to slice and add. I just finished prepping all the prep-able ingredients for the lasagna. It's time to start making the sauce. Then I'll pre-cook the noodles and bag and refrigerate them. I'll assemble the whole thing an hour in advance and put it in the oven a half hour before guests are due. I'll serve the soup in cups with a little pistou swirled in as Bob's pals arrive, and we'll have crackers and dips out for appetizers. Then I'll serve lasagna and salad. Friend Arthur is on his way over and we're going to make cannoli for dessert. It's what my sweetie requested instead of cake. And so he shall have it. All this food writing reminds me to inform you that shortly I will start writing a food blog. I'll link to it here as soon as I post the first entry.

Mother's Day Review

Mother's Day passed well and without trauma. I'd gone to my hometown to celebrate the birthdays of my older sister, her husband, and my younger brother, who were all born on May 5 and 6. We had a wonderful beach barbecue, flew kites, and ate luscious homemade birthday cake (made by family friend Ellen E.). It was a gathering so like the family parties my mom and dad used to orchestrate. We brought bottles of soap solution for the kids to blow bubbles with, and at the beach my 4-year-old niece sat while we scooped sand over her legs and feet to make a mermaid's tail. Then she'd burst up, run to another location, sit down and demand we do it again. That was Saturday of Mother's Day weekend. That evening, my brother-in-law offered to watch the little ones while my younger sister and I went out for a sisterly visit. We hadn't had that luxury--just her and I, alone to do as we pleased--in probably 10 years. We went up to a nearby restaurant and ate strawberry shortcake on the back patio and talked and talked. Sunday, Mother's Day, I got up and ate breakfast with her and the girlies, then drove north 15 minutes to see my younger brother's new apartment. I stopped again in Santa Barbara proper to visit my older sister in her bookstore, and then drove up to San Luis Obispo to see Jim and Ellen. I hadn't had my Jim and Ellen fix in too long, and it was a balm to see them. We watched golf and drank wine and ate crackers, olives stuffed with anchovies, and smoked oysters, all of which made my Greek blood hum in my veins. I got to read the latest, and final, draft of one of Jim's short stories, which he's submitting to a few contests (good luck!), and found he had polished it to a lovely shine. Too soon, it was time to hit the freeway for four more hours of driving. I did think of my mom quite a lot over the weekend, and my dad as well, but never in grief. I'm grateful.

Conclusions

Today I went and chatted with the guy who's trying to recruit me. As I expected, the job would be way too broad. They need someone to write fact sheets and other informational, do the VP's speeches and powerpoints, do high-level strategic thinking, link different departments and processes, project-manage, be on-point for the media, and about a zillion other things. That's so 10 years ago, in terms of my career history. They do not foresee being given the budget to hire the headcount they really need. I no longer take pride in doing the work of six people. I want to do the work of one person, and do it very well. I'm a strategic thinker, a finder of best practices and greater efficiencies, an adviser and a doer. I do not want to be pigeonholed as a glorified copygirl. They can keep that job and come back knocking when they have the job I'm looking for. I'm not happy to be unable to step up to the department that's luring me. It's the place where everything's happening. It's a place from which I'd be able to do much good. But it's also a place that's not ready for me. Beyond all that, I love the department I'm in now, the people I work with now, and the work I do now. Here I have the room to do great work and to make a difference. So, I'll stay put for now and enjoy my good fortune.

One last Easter service to go..

Went last night to "The Service of the Murdered God," as my pal Andrew calls it. "Lamentations" is what Holy Cross calls it, and it's one of the most beautiful evening services of Easter Week. I qualify it because I have never attended a morning or afternoon service during Easter week. One year (maybe next year) I'll take the whole week off and attend every service, just to see what they all are like. Bob and I were invited for a Pascha dinner at my godparents' home. My godmother is going all-out: lamb, spanakopita, and all. I'll bring three appetizers. I can't wait. It's been two years since I was able to celebrate an Easter Sunday.

Because of Pascha I have not written all week. At our last writer's group meeting I turned in a partial effort, but I'm not happy with that start and may let the whole idea lapse. Meanwhile I found a story I began years ago and then lost (that was 3 computers ago, the file is gone forever, and I thought I didn't have a hard copy--well, I found a hard copy two days ago, to my delight). I still like that fragment a lot, so I'll begin fleshing it out and will probably just abandon the other one. It's just not going anywhere.

Today (make that yesterday) I was head-hunted for the first time ever. The exact quote was "What do I have to do to get you to come work for me?" It would mean a lot more money, but I love my current job. So I listened but didn't leap. Neither did I decline. I'll need to do some interviewing and investigating before deciding if I want to take the offer, but it was flattering to get the call.

Holy Week: It has me

It's begun. Actually, it began on Sunday, but I didn't go to that evening service (fourth mortal sin). I did go tonight, for the second of three "Service of the Bridegroom" services. It was short, as Holy Week services go, and as my friend Andrew says: "They just keep getting longer from here." They're gorgeous, mainly. But I always find myself praying at about the midway point for the creaky old head cantor to just hurry it up a little. He does tend to linger over his words--in Greek because they are so pretty, and in English so he can (a) parse it out, and (b) lose everyone who's trying to sing along with him. He's cranky that way. It starts pissing off the other cantors and then we end up listening to a very subtle struggle going on back there in the balcony. A younger cantor will pipe up and stomp on the end of the head cantor's line as he dwindles it down to a period, and then the second cantor will just take off from there, less in-tune but much more up to speed, which brings relief to all of us down below. We humans are all so weak. I will need to skip tomorrow's service, the last of the "Bridegroom" series. After that it's Holy Wednesday--a really good one because we receive the Sacrament of Holy Oil on our faces and hands. It's a strict-fast week, which is good from a temporal reasons also, as I continue my quest to ditch the ballast. I've lost 15 pounds since I began my training regimen (that was last July). I have 20 and change to go. My quest will get a one-day suspension on Easter Sunday, as THS and I have an invitation to a Greek Easter dinner (!!). I hadn't anticipated an invitation, and we were just going to do a reasonable little Greek meal--some lamb chops and salad, with baklava for dessert. But now I just have to make a Greek appetizer to bring to my godparents' house. Alleluia.

It takes a year, and then some

In two-ish hours (around 3 a.m.), it'll be 1 year since my mother died. Today is also the beginning of Holy Week, and I expect it will be a more emotional seven days than other Paschal weeks have been. I'm doing OK tonight, though over the last two, I experienced a resurgence in the insomnia I suffered last year, and I found myself weepier and touchier than normal. I don't plan a special memorial for tomorrow. I've been remembering my mother all year long. I'll go to Palm Sunday service, where I'll light a candle for her as I do each Sunday I'm in church, and then I'll go see my nearly-100-year-old friend, Betty. And then I'll go home for a while. I may go to the gym, as I usually do on Sunday evenings. Somehow it seems as though living well and happily this day would be the best way to honor my mother, who worked so hard to get me born, grown and launched, and who was my friend. And so at least right now, this significant day is sitting mostly peaceably with me. Yes, I'm up writing at 1 a.m. instead of sleeping, but at least I'm not sobbing as I type. The next impending holiday, Mother's Day, does bother me, though. Last year I barely noticed Mother's Day, because I was so engulfed in grief. But this year, I inwardly flinch at every ad that begins "Get Mom a..." or "Mom will LOVE this...". It's the same when "Dads and Grads" ads start popping up in June--and it's been eight years since my dad died, so I suppose I can't expect to be inured. The sharpness of grief has left me, and I have regained my balance. What remains is a deep longing to talk with both of my parents. I wish I could dream of them, but it doesn't happen. So all I have is photos. Now and again I'll get one out and stare at it, and imagine their voices, their laughter, the way they moved as they spoke. And sometimes, a little, that helps.

Off my fast

I fell off the Lenten fast when I went to Boston for a week. Really, I would've had to have been a saint to stay on it: My aunt put together a fabulous dinner reception for THS and me and invited all our aunts and uncles, second cousins, and others who couldn't fly out to our wedding. She even got a little wedding cake from a local baker. It was all so tasty. Then of course there was the famous Abe and Louie's steakhouse downtown. I mean, once you've started so thoroughly down the pike, why not just get into a Ferrari and speed yourself along? So now I'm not going to fast again until Holy Week, which is at the end of this month. Gah! Hey, at least I have something recent for confession. If I go. Getting back to Things Food-Related: I'm considering joining The Daring Bakers' Blogroll. The Daring Bakers are a bunch of cooks who all agree to bake a chosen recipe each month, and then blog about their experiences. The Blogroll just lists the blogs of all the bakers. I realize that joining the TDBB would be a be quite in keeping with the mission of this blog, which is to distract me from writing. And so what likely will happen is that I'll decommission the wedding blog (because hey, I'm married) and instead write a food blog. You wouldn't believe how many food blogs exist. Some of them are so graphic and sensual that they make Nigella Lawson look like nun. Anyway, that's the noodling I'm doing right now. I just got back from the gym and I'm completely worn out, which keeps me from dwelling on "hey, it's nearly been a year since my mom died"-type thoughts. Which is good, as I have writing to avoid. The writing I'm currently attempting to avoid is a story that's due to my writers' group on Tuesday. Hrmmm...

Tomorrow it's fish!

Tomorrow is Annunciation, which means we Orthodox folk can eat fish. Mmmmm. I'm meeting my pal Andrew for a sushi dinner. It's a long way 'til April 27, and my dear husband has been a trouper about lenten eating. Probably this is because I have been cooking from the Moosewood Low-Fat Favorites cookbook. Cook from Moosewood, and you're pretty much cooking vegan, which is pretty much the whole dietary idea of lent, but it's darn-tasty vegan cooking and that makes all the difference. We don't feel as deprived. But the whole idea of lent is to deprive yourself of pleasures that connect you to the world, so you have less distracting you from focusing on your spiritual health. As I understand it, Catholics get to choose what they give up for lent. For Greeks, it's prescribed: no meat, no dairy, no olives nor olive oil, and no wine, for 40 days. Loads of Greeks do not fast. My aunt, for example, teases me about my adherence, saying that converts are the worst.

Right about now in the lenten timeline I start questioning the whole effort anyway: One thing I'm not so good at is formal praying; giving up pork chops and cream puffs is probably not going to make me a better supplicant. A healthier wanna-be is more like it. Also, most people who do follow the fast end up making indulgent meals anyway. For example: lobster is allowed. All shellfish varieties are allowed. I don't know about you, but where I come from, lobster, scallops and abalone are considered delicacies. And wine is disallowed, but if you interpret the dietary law most narrowly, and many fasters do, that's the only alcohol that's prohibited. So you can go out and have a steamed lobster preceded by a martini (twist, no olive), wash it down with strawberries dipped in melted chocolate, and tell yourself you're being penitential. This is the line of thinking (and practice) that makes me want to throw up my hands and order cheeseburgers to be delivered to the entire congregation post-liturgy. But I have digressed horribly. Tomorrow, it's fish. I may have a tuna sandwich at lunch, for good measure. I can't figure out a way to get fish into breakfast. There are no trout streams nearby, and freshly-caught trout is the only decent fish to eat first thing in the morning.

Baking bread. Mmmmmm.

I baked two loaves of bread last weekend using our Kitchen Aid mixer, and they came out pretty good. But because we received a spiffy Le Creuset 6.5-quart dutch oven as a wedding gift, I'm now able to try out the "Almost No-Knead Bread" recipe from the Jan-Feb 2008 issue of Cooks Illustrated. I'm so excited. I've been wanting to try the recipe since we first got the magazine in our mailbox.

Cooks Illustrated is one of my new husband's favorite things. When it arrives, he grabs it, goes to the couch, rips off the plastic covering, and looks at the back inside cover to see the photos of the featured recipes for that issue. Then he thumbs through the magazine, commenting on the bits that interest him and slotting recipes into the next week's menu plan. It's delightful to watch.

I'll post a review of the recipe when the bread comes out of the oven and is cool enough to cut. Meanwhile, Happy Friday.

Lent+hunger=creativity in the kitchen

It's lent, and for the Greek Orthodox who observe it, that means no meat, dairy, olive oil, or wine for 40 days. Our Easter is on April 27, so I have a way to go. Tonight THH (newly-created acronym for newly-created reference to my husband--he used to be The Hunky Scientist; now he's The Hunky Husband) is away at a Golden State Warriors game with one of his pals. So I was on my own for dinner. When I bach it, I often just head down the street for a slice of pizza. But the no-cheese lenten thing nixes that. So I foraged. I found a sweet potato, pierced it and put it in the oven at 375F. Forty minutes later, I thawed some spinach and squeezed it dry, then minced a large clove of garlic. I heated up some canola oil in a small skillet, added the garlic and sauteed it a little while, then added the spinach and sauteed it a little longer. I added some pepper and salt, then for a spicy kick I added a squirt of sriracha hot sauce. Once the sweet potato was baked and had a crispy skin, I pulled it out, cut it open and fluffed it up. Then I topped it with the spinach mixture. Oh boy was it good. And I have a healthy-eating halo over my head, too. Yes, I'm smug. I wonder if lenten-cooking smugness needs to be confessed before Easter communion.

Sweet life

Today I felt happier than I have in I don't know how long. I was buoyant, and couldn't stop smiling. Everyone I spoke with noticed, and most said that if two weeks away from regular life did that to me, they want a vacation right now. It's more than the two weeks away, though: it's also feeling so well-married, along with getting back my creative spark. It's just permeating everything I do. Right now, though, I'm sitting on my couch, bird on my shoulder and cat at my feet, nose buried in my laptop because I just made the frosting for a German's sweet chocolate cake. The three cake layers are cooling on their racks, and the frosting is also cooling, but it beckons from the saucepan. I adore that frosting, cake or no cake, and am liable to consume it by the spoonful if I'm left unminded. The hunky scientist has gone to the gym, so I'm vulnerable to the pecan-laden, coconut-caramel come-hithers issuing from the kitchen. I practically have to lash myself to a mast and stopper up my ears. Soon my husband will be home and we'll consider dinner. He'll take over the cake construction (it's for one of the guys who reports to him at work), and then I'll be free of the frosting temptation.

New energy!

I'm sorry to have left the last post up for so long. Wedding prep, then being married and honeymooning, took up all my time. But I'm back now, and full of the vigor that only two weeks of sloth and gluttony (along with other sins) can bring. A wonderful bit of awesomeness: my creative well has filled with sweet water again. No more drought. Whew! Another bonus: I didn't gain a pound while we were away, despite our having eaten gourmet dinners nearly each night. I found this out tonight at the gym, when I climbed up on the scale pre-workout. I stepped down and did a subdued happy dance--subdued because other gym-goers were walking past and blocking my groove. Heh. Anyway, I'm composing a wedding and reception recap, complete with photos, for my dear ones who couldn't attend. I'll post that over on the 1+1 site as soon as it's done.

Sick, and tired of it.

It's exactly one week until I become a married person. I've been doing a lot of prep work, which you can read about on the wedding blog (link at right). It hasn't helped that I've been sick with an intestinal bug since late Wednesday night. It's kept me awake on the hour these last four nights and I'm a bit drawn. If things don't clear up by tomorrow, I'm going straight to the doctor. Enough is enough. Today I really wanted my mother here, and not only because I'm sick. It's just too strange to be heading into marriage without my parents. My dad I'm accustomed to having lost. I miss him, but I'm used to it. I'm still not used to being without my mom. It's helped immensely that since July I've been seeing a counselor at Kara, a non-profit grief support organization based in Palo Alto. If not for that, I'm certain I'd still be really deep in the weeds. I go weekly. After I'm done and have been away from it a while, I'll go back, get training, and become a peer counselor myself. It's something I feel a strong pull to do. In this world, grief is not given its due. It's weird enough that nobody talks about dying and death. But it's even stranger that those of us who are grieving are pretty much doing it alone. And we're expected to do it quickly--at least here in America we are. Six months is considered the outer limit of time allowed. Mention any feelings of loss after that, and we're considered mentally ill and in need of medication, or at best self-indulgent. And so you swiftly learn to just not talk about it. Not even with family and friends, at least not in any detail. And so thank God for Kara. I think every town and city should have one.

Underdogs score big.

We threw Super Bowl Chilifest III at our house this afternoon, and 24 people showed up. That meant a triple batch of meat-only chili, which called for 11 pounds of pork, 42 pasilla chiles, 16 onions, several cans of tomatoes, and a small VW-full of spices. Bob did the cooking while I cleaned the house and then caught up on wedding crafts (for details, see 1+1, my wedblog; link at right). He also made two pans of cornbread and four ricotta-spinach pies, along with two pans of raspberry bars. We had a 'fridge full of sodas and beer, and at 3 p.m. people starting streaming in the door, bringing with them enough drink to float the Queen Mary. It was spectacular. Except, of course, for the fact that New York took the trophy home. My entire paternal domestic line is now officially in mourning. We host a pool and give away prizes at each quarter. This year, newcomers took the first-, second-, and third-quarter prizes. A 12-year scotch as the fourth-quarter prize, and our neighbor from across the hall won that. It's fitting, as he and his wife run a wine shop and are always bringing us bottles to try. We cleaned up within an hour, and now I'm sipping some red and catching up on my browsing and blogging.

meme-o-rama (from my cousin's blog)

I want to know 36 things about you. I don't care if we never talk, or if we already know everything about each other. It can be as long or as short as you like. Be honest! Answer in the comments and then repost in your own journal so I can respond.

**You can answer what you're comfortable with**

1) Are you currently in a serious relationship?

2) What was your dream growing up?

3) What talent do you wish you had?

4) If I bought you a drink what would it be?

5) Favorite vegetable?

6) What was the last book you read?

7) What zodiac sign are you?

8) Any Tattoos and/or Piercings? Explain where.

9) Worst Habit?

10) If you saw me walking down the street would you offer me a ride?

11) What is your favorite sport?

12) Do you have a Negative or Optimistic attitude?

13) What would you do if you were stuck in an elevator with me?

14) Worst thing to ever happen to you?

15) Tell me one weird fact about you.

16) Do you have any pets?

17) What if I showed up at your house unexpectedly?

18) What was your first impression of me?

19) Do you think clowns are cute or scary?

20) If you could change one thing about how you look, what would it be?

21) Would you be my crime partner or my conscience?

22) What color eyes do you have?

23) Ever been arrested?

24) Bottle or can soda?

25) If you won $10,000 today, what would you do with it?

27) What's your favorite place to hang at?

28) Do you believe in ghosts?

29) Favorite thing to do in your spare time?

30) Do you swear a lot?

31) Biggest pet peeve?

32) In one word, how would you describe yourself?

33) Do you believe/appreciate romance?

35) Do you believe in God?

36) Will you repost this so I can fill it out and do the same for you?

Stark-raving pissed off. Oh, and writing.

A coworker is driving me barking mad (arf!). Just barking. She's obsequious, disingenuous, self-serving. Her time-management skills mock the term. She was witless enough to alienate her department's admin within a week of her arrival nearly a year ago. She makes promises about my services that I can't keep (not only because her promises are ill-informed, but because they are usually ridiculous). She calls in me and my services as though I were her gifts to offer. Her products. And I'm not even a member of her department. It's clear that in a company whose internal motto is "We are here to make lives better," my coworker is here only to make her portfolio better. I rant, I know. But I seethe. She's been making me nutters for almost 12 months. I've tried talking with her, coaching her, baldly saying what she needs to know. I've tried different approaches, saying the same thing many different ways in case she has an unusual way of learning. All to no avail. She just keeps getting upset when I don't fulfill the promises she makes in my stead. It's unbelievable. So today I sent an incendiary 360 review form to her boss. I feel bad, but only marginally so, and that only because I have to deal with her now. (We work on the same floor of the same building, she in Public Affairs on the north side of the building and me in my little cube hosted by Public Affairs on the south side of the building. Which makes me hope her boss even marginally agrees with my assessment of her, because otherwise I may be out of a seat. No matter. I can work from home and other remote locations.). I heeded the advice of my longtime friend and dear mentor, J.H., and didn't put anything in the review that I haven't said to her face. Still, I'm certain she'll act shocked and hurt, probably even betrayed. That's because no matter how many times or how many ways she's told something, if it doesn't fall in line with her own objectives or perceptions, she doesn't retain it. It's kind of like talking to a brain-damaged person who has no short-term memory. I have to keep repeating myself. Now, I'm one of the most forgiving, mentoring, second-chance-ing, patient people I know. But once I've been crossed too many times, my patience runs out and then I am not a supportive person. No, not at all. So I'm starting with the negative review. We'll see where it goes from there.
+++
I owe fiction at our next group meeting, 2/12. Eeep! I have some pretty raw stuff and now I have to sit down and hold it against the shaping and buffing wheels for a while. Wish me luck.

Holidays' end

Our first Christmas tree met an undignified end on Sunday night: we unhooked the ornaments, unwound the strands of lights, hauled it out to the balcony and pitched it over the rail to the sidewalk below. Once we got the tinder-dry pine out onto the balcony, I threw on a jacket and went down to the metal-cage security door that opens out onto the sidewalk on our busy SoMa thoroughfare. I looked both ways, then shouted up an all-clear and ducked back behind the steel mesh. The tree hit the sidewalk sideways, rustling on the way down. Then my fiance came zipping downstairs and dragged the sad castoff to a pile of windfall across the street. The city is scheduled to come by, saw up the all the trees that fell in the big storm last week, and take the pieces to the mulch yard. We figured that'd be a better use for our Christmas tree than being chucked into a landfill. Still. As much as I love the fragrance and cheer of a live tree, I really regret having a dying plant in our home and using it as a symbol for renewed life. I'd much rather have an aluminum tree and funky silver ornaments. But my fiance doesn't have a retro molecule in his body so that's never going to happen. Ah, well. More news over at 1+1 (see link at right).

Demon-free for another year

Today Theophany was celebrated in the Orthodox Church, complete with the Blessing of the Waters. Along with an uncommonly long commitment of TIC (time in church), this involves being sprinkled with holy water, which feels pretty good, particularly when the guy doing the sprinkling is His Eminence Metropolitan Nikitas of the Dardanelles. I got to take communion from him, too. Nikitas is a cool metropolitan. He mentioned during his little chat exhorting parishioners to stay after liturgy for the whole holy water to-do that he's a Florida Gators fan, so he understands the die-hard commitment of waiting in the rain and snow until the end of a close game. Any priest who brings football into his preaching is OK in my book. After the liturgy and blessing of the waters, everyone was free to pick up a vial of holy water from a tray in the narthex. Cool. Tap water that through the power of 20 minutes' blessing can safeguard my home, car, spirit, bodily health* and even allegedly my peace of mind. I nabbed a bottle and left almost immediately afterward, DFH (dear future husband) in tow, to meet friend Andrew for lunch. Andrew, a wit and fellow convert who now attends an Orthodox church a bit south of mine, said they celebrated theophany/epiphany at his church, too, and that "nobody had burst into flames so it was all good. No vampires." Then he allowed as to how the whole sprinkling with holy water thing was handy, as once a year it allows the priests to check their congregations for demons. One thing I really appreciate about Andrew is that he's a churchgoer with a wicked sense of humor.

*The whole bodily-healing thing really had me going there for a while. But I tried it on my mom multiple times. Either holy water just works on the Orthodox, or I wasn't enough of a believer. Or it wasn't in God's plan. Or maybe it's just that nobody gets out of that final train ride and my mom's car was at the blasted station. Whatever. It didn't do anything for her bodily health and even though I find holy water charming, I'm also still a little bitter about that.

Whew!

Much better now. Being inside and cozy while a huge rainstorm is blustering outside has added substantially to my now-much-lighter mood. We woke up this morning to see many trees split or downed in the tree-lined alley across the way. Huge limbs blocked both ends of the alley, and a good 40 or so cars were blocked until mid-day when the city showed up with big power saws and cleared the way. Power was out until 2. I'm happy my good spirits are back, and not even the prospect of a party-less birthday (my birthday is tomorrow!) is getting me down. Our friend Arthur, who was going to make dinner for me and dear future husband and a small group of friends, came down with a bug. So that's probably off. But now that the power is back on, my sweetie can make the cake he was planning to bake, so there will (if the storm gods are with us and don't take the electricity back out) be sweet chocolatey goodness on the morrow. Bonus: my older brother sent me a present and it arrived by FedEx today. I love getting packages in the mail.

The elevator and the candle

I made it through Christmas just fine. But sometime in the days afterward, a funk snuck up on me. The best visual to describe the emotional sinkhole I've gone into would be a mine shaft elevator. Somehow I descended from serenity and calm happiness into a sorrow so deep that the strongest urge I feel is to just shut down and shut out everything, even the light. I'm finding myself leaning back on an old remedy: Find one thing every day to be happy with, and somehow that day will go by OK. It doesn't have to be a big thing. It can be the print a leaf leaves on the sidewalk after a rain. It can be something silly and charming, like the the word "tacky," which is such a singularly human construct that the word always makes me appreciate my species. It can be seeing my fiance cheer at a football game or my cat stretch in front of the fire, or getting a friend's writing to look over, or watching a dog run zany circles in the park across the street. I wait for these things, and they get me by. I know from times before when I played this game that it works. These little talismans light my way to each new sunrise until steady cheer dawns in me again. The trick is to avoid wondering when that will be. I've got a story due in 17 days, so that ought to keep me occupied.

Holiday catch-up

It's been a while since I last posted, and that's because I was insanely busy with Christmas preparations. It's the first time I've ever not gone to my hometown for Christmas. Notice my use of the term "my hometown" rather than "home." Now, for the first time, I feel like my home is here, in San Francisco. It was a good decision to stay here for Christmas. But it meant that I had to have everything ready and into the mail by last Monday. Gifts for everyone I was giving gifts to; chocolates for everyone I was mailing or handing them to; cards sent. In the past I could just wait til the last minute with just about everything except cards, then put it all into the car the night before and drive it all to Santa Barbara. Not this time. I put together 18 calendars in iPhoto, made a tutu for one of my nieces, made 20 pounds of chocolates (truffles, caramels, barks). I was a good holiday citizen and got all my cards into the mail early.

It was my first Christmas away from my hometown and with my new family--my fiance--and while I've had some sad moments thinking about what can never be again, it was a good, self-supporting decision to stay up here rather than go to Santa Barbara to be where everything would remind me of loss rather than the joy of Christmas. But not being there at this time of year was so new to me that I wasn't quite sure of how to go about it. So I thought we could begin by figuring out what some of our holiday traditions would be. I requested we see a choral performance, since choir music means Christmas to me. So on 12/23, we went to see Chanticleer at St. Ignatius here in the city. It was the most exquisite a cappella singing I've ever heard. And the church was a stunner, too. It was so beautiful it nearly made me want to go Catholic (I'm still safely Greek Orthodox). We were so blown away by the whole experience that we decided to make Chanticleer's Christmas concert one of our permanent holiday traditions. We may add a nutcracker next year. In fact, next year we may just get each other Christmas concert tickets for gifts instead of the "under-the-tree" kind.

Last on the holiday catch-up list to write about is a dinner we put together tonight for 10 of our friends. We made crostini for appetizers and served that with sherries. Then came the main course: turkey with cornbread and roasted vegetable stuffing; mushroom gravy; lemon-roasted green beans; cranberries with port and cinnamon; bread and butter; pinot noir for the wine. Dessert was a chocolate panna cotta cake that came out wonderfully, paired with various ports and sauternes. The calorie load was staggering. Our guests were charming and fun. One of them brought the board game Taboo and we played a round, then chatted and drank more dessert wine until around midnight. The carnage in the kitchen was so complete--every dish out and every wine and cordial glass used--that we had to snap some photos. I'll post 'em later. Now I've got to head over to my wedding blog and catch up there. Then it's time for bed, at last.

My first Christmas tree ever

Believe it or not, I've never had my own Christmas tree. I always went home to Santa Barbara for Christmas; usually to help decorate the tree that went up shortly after Thanksgiving, and then again for the Christmas holiday itself. This is the first year those ornaments from my and my siblings' childhoods won't be unpacked from their boxes out in the garage. They'll stay there through the cold nights until one day next year we'll divide them. Meanwhile, my first-ever Christmas tree stands, lit and fragrant, in our living room in San Francisco. We bought it for $37 at a tree lot outside the Grocery Outlet in Redwood City. It's a six-foot fir tree. The cat loves to play underneath it. Thanksgiving was profoundly depressing for me. But the idea of Christmas, here with my fiance, with our own tree and our own new traditions, makes me feel peaceful. There'll be no sibling politics to deal with. No driving, except maybe to the store for any stray dinner ingredients. No house-where-parents-aren't. We'll go hear Chanticleer on December 23, open some bubbly on Christmas Eve, and make dinner for a few friends on Christmas Day. When I think of Christmases past, I feel so sad. But it's Christmas Now, and I can feel happy about that.

The bad, the ugly, and the good

The only good things about the Thanksgiving weekend trek that (1) I was with Bob, and (2) we got to visit with relatives. Oh, and (3) we took a trip to March Field Air Museum, a place where I feel strangely at home. We drove 1,100 miles, from San Francisco to Nuevo, then Indio, then Santa Barbara, and back to San Francisco. We were exhausted and cold-ridden when we returned. I'm sneezing as I type and contemplating which cold med will decongest me enough so I'll be able to sleep tonight. Whine, whine. On the good side of things, my Christmas present (early) is a bazillion more sessions with the trainer. Woo! Another sizable bit of good fortune is that I received a story written by my dear friend and mentor, and I can't wait to tuck into it.

Discouraging

I heard the other week that one category of submissions that always makes publishers cringe is loss-and-grief manuscripts. Word is they're almost always pitched into the toss or sendback pile. This is not encouraging news, since I'd planned to compile my journal entries and emails into a journal-style book about my mom's death. On top of this, I face spoken and unspoken criticism from writers I know who think laboring over fiction is somehow more legitimate than the writing project I plan. Of course, I'm beginning my work. But as I go, I'm struggling to not feel like just another hack.

Personal environment

I have two visits to go with my personal trainer. The effects of all my iron pushing started showing up a few weeks ago and continue incrementally. I have better muscle definition and I'm starting to lose a little body fat. It's a huge relief to be in shape again, and now I know how to use the free weight section of the gym, which used to intimidate me. Now I shoulder past the big, sweaty men and take my place at the cable machine or on the weight bench and go through my sets. It feels good. I'm sleeping more. Writing more. And have a generally cheerier outlook. Marred, currently, by the fact that an idiot skipper ran his container ship up against a Bay Bridge support and spilled a crapload of fuel oil into our bay. The sludge has encircled Alcatraz, coated untold thousands of birds, and is washing up on various beaches. Nightmare.

May His Memory Be Eternal

My friend R.D.'s father died on Monday. I just learned about it tonight, a few moments ago, which doesn't bother me in and of itself. I understand the chaos that happens and the weird time warp one enters when a loved one dies. But I wish I could have been there sooner for my friend. He's exhausted, naturally, and grieving. I'm bitter that lung cancer has claimed another victim. My mom would have adored Mr. D, who was a wonderful jazz musician. I'll call my friend tomorrow and see how he's doing.

How Am I? "Miserable, darling, as usual!"

I'm constructing a Cruella de Vil outfit for Halloween. Here's how it's working out:
- From home I'm using a long slinky black skirt and a sleek black tank.
- From TJ Maxx I bought a pair of red pointy flats.
- From House of Humor, a local costume shop, I bought a cigarette holder, a pair of elbow-length red gloves, a white wavy wig, and some black spray-on hair color. I'll spray half the wig black.
- From JoAnn fabrics, I bought four yards of white fake fur and four yards of dalmation-print lining fabric, four packets of red bias tape, four large black buttons, four large snaps for under the buttons (I don't want to bother with making bottonholes in fake-fur fabric), and 2 smaller red fabric buttons.

I drafted a pattern for a wide-collared white "fur" cape that'll be lined with the spotted material. All seams will be bound with red tape, to go with the red gloves and shoes. I'll do dramatic brows and red lipstick. I wish I had the movie so I could study the character, but I'll have fun regardless.

Back to the cape: I spent a good deal of time measuring and drafting, then cut out the pattern pieces. Tomorrow I'll cut and begin pinning and sewing. I figure Monday evening will be devoted to doing the trimming (sewing buttonholes on the inside tabs that'll make the cape close into "sleeves" when needed). I'll buy red lipstick on Tuesday, then be all ready for Wednesday's big Halloween party at work.

This is the first creative project I've been really interested in since my mom died. For some reason, the wedding planning interests me deeply, but not consumingly so. But a good Halloween costume...now there's a craft worth obsessing over at least a little.

Sad news from the east

My paternal uncle, the father of my dear cousins out in Boston, is gravely hurt and has been in the hospital for the past week. He was supposed to have surgery this morning, but at 6 a.m. today, his family got a call that their dad was back in the ICU, on a respirator, and they'd best all get down there as soon as possible. We'd all been praying daily for his recovery, and what a crushing setback we've gotten instead. Again, I'm left wondering (childishly, I'm sure) about the usefulness of prayer in doing anything besides making people feel like they're doing something at the time they're praying. Of course, I continue to pray, and in faith, but there's this weird little stream of thought going at the same time that says "pray all you want; it won't matter. What's going to happen is what's going to happen, and your prayers will have nothing to do with it." Maybe that's why a lot of people say we should pray for God's will to happen, and for ourselves to accept it with strength and with grace. I just want my uncle to pull through, so my aunt can have her husband and my cousins can have their dad for a few years longer.

My priest would not approve. Nevertheless...

Thanks to my cousin Wednesday42.

You are The Empress

Beauty, happiness, pleasure, success, luxury, dissipation.

The Empress is associated with Venus, the feminine planet, so it represents,
beauty, charm, pleasure, luxury, and delight. You may be good at home
decorating, art or anything to do with making things beautiful.

The Empress is a creator, be it creation of life, of romance, of art or business. While the Magician is the primal spark, the idea made real, and the High Priestess is the one who gives the idea a form, the Empress is the womb where it gestates and grows till it is ready to be born. This is why her symbol is Venus, goddess of beautiful things as well as love. Even so, the Empress is more Demeter, goddess of abundance, then sensual Venus. She is the giver of Earthly gifts, yet at the same time, she can, in anger withhold, as Demeter did when her daughter, Persephone, was kidnapped. In fury and grief, she kept the Earth barren till her child was returned to her.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

*honk*....*snrfl*...$&#@!!

Sick again. I had a few days to enjoy being over the flu and then a cold virus jumped me. Damn. I hate being congested; hate it with a white-hot hate. I don't get to go to the gym. I had to cancel two fun weekend events I'd really been looking forward to. *Sigh*. And I just IM'd with a friend whose dad's lung cancer, I found out this very moment, has spread to his liver and brain. Which makes me feel like an utter loser for complaining about a cold. Errggghgh.

Gave me fever

I came home on Wednesday feeling tired, strung-out really, and with my back tingling in that special way that means I'm probably coming down with something. But I went to 24 Hour Fitness to meet my trainer anyway, because (1) I'm bad-ass, and (2) I thought maybe a workout would kick-start my immune system. I was wrong on the latter count. As I warmed up, I was feeling pretty OK. Almost normal. But then Mr. Evil (my nickname for Mark, my trainer, who I really like) came along and started putting me through my paces. It's a given that at the end of each workout with him, I feel like an overcooked strand of linquini. But on Wednesday night, I thought I was going to either faint or hurl. I'm kind of stubborn when it comes to taking everything that guy can dish out, so I just kept my head down and did my reps on each exercise until my muscles trembled and threatened to fail. Normally I sweat like a dock worker when I exercise, but this night I noticed that no matter how hard I pushed, I didn't perspire. Finally, Mark looked at me and said "We'd better stop. You look kind of green." I crept home and took a long bath, and two hours later found out I was running a temparature. I ached all over and my eyeballs felt like hot marbles. My heart rate was 111 per minute, and it stayed there for hours. Flu bug anyone? Arghgh...I laid off of work for a day, napping and gabbing with friends on the phone. Old pal Ron called me up from Bozeman. He asked if I was feeling sorry for myself, and when I said "no," he said "Oh yeah--it's us guys who feel sorry four ourselves when we get sick. Women just start throwing kleenex all over the house." Ron cracks me up every time we talk. I drank juice and watched bad TV and scanned the 'net for weird news and slept more and let my fiance pamper me a little and I felt better by Friday morning. Whew! Just in time for the weekend.

Silence of the homecomer

I got a check in the mail yesterday. Which, I suppose, is better than having to put a check into the mail. This is a cash disbursement of one-fifth of my late mother's stock holdings. So. Money in the mail. Money I have to start a checking account for. Money I'd rather not have. But I'll bank it, and I'll use some of it, and invest the rest, and I'll work up some gratitude, eventually.

The last few weeks weren't easy. I found myself so deep under the water of grief that my best defense from it was to just try and hold my breath and live my everyday life. But that's about all I could muster. And so whenever most people asked me how I was doing, I'd say "fine" and leave it at that. But "fine" had been redefined. It no longer meant carefree. It simply meant I was still here; I was maintaining. The hunky scientist fiance and I have been watching recorded episodes of Ken Burns's "The War," and after seeing the images and hearing the veterans' stories, I began to understand why so many of them came back and never said much about what they'd experienced. What could those young men say to their relieved mothers, to the wives they'd grown up alongside in those loamy farming towns, to explain the shattering their lives had undergone in the bloody mud of far-off places with names like "Peleliu"? No words could begin to adequately explain, except to others who'd experienced a similar thing, and then no words would be needed.

i've never occupied a world where words have lost their power. But it didn't matter, as motivation for wordworking was in short supply. But I've come back above the surface and am back to writing, to the imperfect striving that at times brings me closer to grace. And I'm back to wedding planning. We moved our wedding date up by three months (no, I'm not pregnant), to late February, so there's a lot to do.

Come again no more

I spent a few days back in my hometown last week, celebrating my brother's 50th birthday and hanging out with family and friends. And though the visit was full of cheer and good times, it was difficult for me to go over to my parents' house (now ours). For starters, without our mom around to remind him of his chores, my brother has let the yard to go hell. The hedges have grown scrubby and skyward and weeds are pushing the bricks in the back walkway apart.

When my mom and dad first bought that house, we lived crowded into an apartment on the same street. The day they got the keys, mom and dad took us kids across the street and we waded into thigh-high weeds and started pulling them out, exposing good damp earth that would one day hold a lawn and flower beds. The place doesn't look as bad as it did that day, but it has never come closer to reminding me of then. That sight, as well as having to go through the garage storage in search of important papers, left me restless and angry, sad and weary. And today, I've been close to tears a number of times. I bought a used CD of appalachian music while I was there. It's called Appalachian Journey and features Yo Yo Ma, Edgar Meyer, and Mark O'Connor, with guest artists James Taylor and Alison Krauss. Track 3 is perfect for my sentiment today:

Hard Times Come Again No More
(by Stephen C. Foster)
Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears,
While we all swap sorrow with the poor;
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh hard times come again no more.

Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard times, hard times, come again no more
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;
Oh hard times come again no more.

While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay,
There are frail forms fainting by the door;
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say
Oh hard times come again no more.

Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,
Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore
Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave
Oh hard times come again no more.

Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard times, hard times, come again no more
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;
Oh hard times come again no more.

Draft submitted

I finished Draft 2 of the short story I finished over Labor Day weekend, and sent it off to the fiction group for dissection and review. It was the longest stretch I've spent writing in oh, I don't remember how much time. And it was painless. There were no itchy urges to mop, dust, straighten, hem, pluck errant eyebrows, or to do anything other than write, snack, write, browse for facts, and write. Whew.

Trapping myself into writing, with you the unwitting accomplice

I'm going to spend most of my Labor Day weekend writing. I have a short story to turn in before the next time my writer's group meets, mid-month, and I'm way behind. Gah! I'm feeling panicky. So on Saturday I'll work at my church's Greek festival from 11 til 3, come home and write, have a little dinner and resume writing. Then Sunday and Monday will pretty much be all about writing, with breaks to snack and run to the loo, plus two workouts of about an hour and a half each. I have to keep up the momentum on that. I'll report on Monday night or Tuesday about how much I accomplished. There. Now I have to write because otherwise I'm going to have to announce that I didn't. Which would never do.

Sore and exhausted

Tonight I completed the eighth out of 20 sessions with a personal trainer I go to at 24 Hour Fitness. By "completed," I mean I can still walk. The evil monster known as Mark led me through an hour and a half's worth of exercises that were so challenging that my T-shirt was soaked from shoulders to waist. I so wish I were one of those women who glow rather than sweat, but it's never been the case. Sweat actually drips off me when I work out, and my hair sticks to my head like moss on a stone. Oh, so alluring. Anyway, right now I'm so tired I can barely write. And my muscles are protesting in that special way that tells me tomorrow I'm going to be eating aspirin as though it were candy corn. The good part in all this is that I'm getting fit. Another benefit is that I'm sleeping regularly and deeply. The bad part is that my ass is still the size of a bus. I remember a time when the results of exercise didn't take quite this long to show up. Grumble grumble bitch bitch grouse and growl.

In and out of the woods

I've been in the thick of grieving lately: quickly confused, easily upset, unexpectedly depressed, given to morbid mind-wanderings. And just when I wake up expecting to feel the same way I did the day before, behold a different mood. So some days are fine, others are excruciating. It's exhausting. I've taken up beading to keep my mind occupied. I'm trying to write, with limited success. A dear friend and mentor just sent me his manuscript to read, and doing that may give me a much-needed inspirational boost. Meanwhile, wedding planning continues apace. If you're interested in such things, you can read about it at my other blog.

Horribly Remiss

I've let this journal go for a while. Rather than blame myself (so distasteful), I'll blame a demanding workload, the need to make a birthday present for my friend The Wench, and wedding planning. This is not to say that I've been distracted. I've just been lazy about posting. I've been having a terrible time writing, also. This is likely because of the fact that (a) I have not assigned myself a set writing schedule, and (b) writing involves emotion and I've had enough of emotional processing for a while. It tires me out quickly. Still, those are just excuses. I have a story to turn in to my writing group, and so tomorrow I will write. Mid-day I plan to visit my nearly-99-year-old buddy at a retirement home a little south of where I live. This year has not been kind to her; she's complained of losing more vision, more balance, more bladder control, and her hands are getting shakier. That makes table manners a bit of a challenge. My friend is proud, so it's tough for her to "join the merry throng" in the dining room. She was reared in Britain, my friend, and so she says things like "join the merry throng." Betty calls herself "a pusher." That means she struggles on, despite her hardships. In the very first week we met, about five years ago, she taught me the words she lives by. I recently learned they come from a poem by Edmund Vance Cooke:

"Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce
Or a trouble is what you make it.
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?
You're beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there--that's disgrace."

Lately Betty has been determined to get outside the assisted-living place and go do her shopping. This takes a lot of grit on her part, as getting around (even with her walker) is a very slow process. I'll take her to Walgreens so she can buy "biscuits" (cookies) to go with her afternoon tea, and any sundries she may need. And then we'll have lunch, and after a little while I'll come back here and fall again to my writing. In the evening, the Hunky Scientist and I will make some wild mushroom lasagne. It'll be a satisfying Saturday.

Another blog!

I decided to blog about wedding preparations and the insane weirdness of the wedding industry. You'll find the link to that blog, called 1+1, below right in my links listing.

A light for the pathway through

Yesterday I went to see a peer counselor at a place called Kara, located in Palo Alto. It's a non-profit whose focus is on supporting those who grieve. I'd been harboring a grim reluctance to go to this appointment. But afterward, I felt a measure of peace. The counselor Kara paired me with is a woman in her 50s who turned out to be a deeply empathetic listener. I told her about the flashbacks I have of my mom, movies that play in my head of scenes from when she was so gravely ill. I told her about how I try to ignore them, or push them away--and how doing so creates conflict because having a memory of my mom (even a distressing one) is better than not having anything of her at all. She asked me to tell her what it was like to care for my mom, and I didn't know where to begin. "Ask me some questions," I said. She did and in answering her, I found a way to start.

I told her about the 18-20 hour days, the days when every minute was taken up with medical appointments; meal planning and preparation; medicine fetching or dosing or planning; linen changing; laundry; sibling politics; housekeeping; working when my mom was sleeping; trying in the midst of it all to stay connected with my sweetheart and sometimes failing that. About praying to a God I didn't believe could even hear me and praying the next night anyway. I told her about the inexorable diminution of my mother; the terrible intimacy of knowing better than my siblings what my dying parent needed to soothe her pain or anxiety or breathlessness; the exhausting disorienting daily battery of new symptoms and new measures to keep those symptoms at bay; the tiny rejuvenating oases of normalcy that love and friendship brought; the terror and helplessness of being an untrained nurse in the home of a desperately sick person whom I loved and who was never going to get better. As I talked, I felt a familiar tug. It was part of my psyche taking the injured part of me by the hand and quietly saying "Come on. Let's go where it's safer." I know that place. It's a realm just a hair's breadth from now, a place just slightly removed from the actual present, a safe buffer away from the immediate; a damper of pain. But I resisted that old call and I stayed right there in the present and I told and I felt what I was going to feel. It was exhausting all over again and it left me dizzy. I had to sit in the car for a while afterward and let the color seep back into the landscape of my life. I'm supposed to meet with this counselor again this coming Monday, and the Monday after that, and every Monday to come until there comes a day when I realize I won't need to meet with her again. A part of me looks forward to this. The rest of me does not.

Independence Day

It's a little after 9 p.m. and instead of standing outside watching fireworks, I'm sitting at the dining room table eating frozen cherries and surfing the net. I was looking forward to 4th of July, until it got here. It's always been my favorite holiday. I love fireworks displays and small-town Independence Day parades with their cheesy floats and marching baton twirlers and banner carriers and convertibles full of waving vets. But it's always also been a family holiday for me some of my happiest memories of home involve being at the fireworks shows with my mom and dad. When I was little, they always got boxes of Cracker Jack for me and my siblings. I ate the popcorn and gave the peanuts to whoever wanted them. We noted over the years that the prizes inside got cheaper and smaller until they were made only of paper. When we were older, we'd take turns driving the family down somewhere near the beach and we'd walk the last several blocks with our blankets. Sometimes we got close enough to feel the soft tickle of ash falling from the starburst explosions. After I left home, I nearly always went back for this holiday. Now, I no longer have a choice. Everyone's doing their own thing: Frank decided he would stay in; Lisa and David said they'd catch the show in their little town; John's grumbling about traffic and lack of parking and undercover cops and no room at his favorite bar; Christine and her family are staying at their home. Their kids are too little to appreciate a fireworks display and so the parents are saving themselves the drive. And I remain here with my fiance, having decided I can't bear the idea of crowds and traffic, the bustle of other peoples' families out on this summer night with somewhere to go and somewhere to get back to. Outside, the finale is happening and the local peanut gallery adds its little chorus of screamers and fizzlers and plain old loud bangers. In the middle distance police sirens call, and out over the water huge burts of light crack into bloom. The overlapping booming reverberates amid the towers of this city and echoes down the memories that lie in the chambers of my heart.

Orphan in a bridal boutique

Today I went for the first time to try on wedding dresses. With me went two friends from church. We went to a small, cramped little store located in a small, mid-Peninsula town and started combing the racks (my instructions: No sequins, no strapless dresses, no overblown use of lace or beads. Simpler is better"). We dragged 15 dresses from the rack and into a dressing room, and I started trying them on. Or, rather, the girls took turns putting me into them. I haven't been dressed by someone else since I was a toddler. But it's nearly impossible to get into a wedding dress by one's self. I quickly discovered that both boat necklines and basque waists make me look as wide as a barn, and that halter necklines and empire waists transform me into someone who has a much nicer figure than mine. I also discovered that ivory looks better on me than stark white, but silvery white is also very complimentary. As I expected, I found that I felt silly in dresses with long trains (I kept saying "I could have this taken off and make a nice little jacket out of it!") And I found that nearly every time I came out of the dressing room there was another bride-to-be there, turning to see her dress from all angles in the mirrors. She looked to be about 24, and her mother was with her, straightening out hemlines, pulling bodice lacings tight, offering opinions. No matter how many girlfriends you have along with you, and no matter how much fun you're having, when you're 10 to 20 years older than most of a boutique's clientele and your mother isn't with you, shopping for a wedding gown takes on a bittersweet, lonely aspect. Still, I came out of there with two gorgeous, elegant, understated gowns in mind. I'm going to go back on a Tuesday when the owner is there and see what kind of savings I can negotiate with her. I don't plan to spend any more for my wedding gown than I would for any other nice evening dress. I'm not naive; I'm determined. If she won't cut me the deal I'm looking for, I'll just go somewhere else until I get what I want for the price I'm willing to pay. My mother would be proud.

Like the tide

When the hunky scientist and I went to Hawaii last November, there was a tsunami warning midway through our trip. It ruined a day of boogie boarding for us, but we did get a chance to see a remarkable thing: As we sat at a table near the shore, we could watch the sea retreat far past its normal low-tide mark, then come washing back to over-fill the cove. Yesterday I learned grief can be like that. During the night before I felt all emotion ebbing away, sinking into the crevices of my mind and heart and leaving me curiously disquieted and gray. The next morning, it came flooding back in a tide of sadness that seemed to cover everything. Fortunately, the next retreat was to a normal emotional level, and here it remains. For the moment.

Uh oh. A deadline.

I went to my first writer's group meeting last night. At the end, I volunteered to offer up something for the next meeting. This fills me with amusement and dread. Amusement because I have no works of fiction to present. Dread because I have to work something up quickly. But it's not as though my life has been lacking in material. I'd better get busy.
+++
I've been singing again, and that reminds me of my mother. I sing songs she liked, standards like "Cry Me A River" and "The Very Thought of You," and numbers that just make me think of her and our old life, like "This Old Porch" by Lyle Lovette and "Still Crazy After All These Years" by Simon and Garfunkle. I sing songs my father played for me when I was a child, and I sing songs my parents never sang, songs from my madrigal days. I sing with my singer's spirit of a voice that nobody will ever know about because I was too shy a teenager to take it on the road. I sing a memory of my mother and my father, sing a portrait of us, and my singing builds melodies as bright and strong, fragile and brief as the lives we all spend here together.

Completely different news

The hunky scientist proposed marriage to me on Sunday, and I said yes, of course. He's been getting hunkier lately, thanks to increased bike riding and weight lifting, and I figured if I didn't say yes that some other broad would grab him. The only bummer in the thing is that now I have this gorgeous, sparkly symbol of attachment and he's still running around out there lookin' all buff, tan, and single. Maybe I'll invent the first man's engagement ring. It'll be a thick platinum band that's engraved on the outside with the words "Too late, ladies!" All joking aside, I'm thrilled; my heart is content. And I'm happy, too, that neither of us wants a big, showy wedding. We just want to be married and have a nice time with our friends and family.
+++
Next week I'm going to attend a writer's group for the first time. Should be interesting and fun. I'll report back.
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On the grief front, I'm sleeping better this week, though work is kicking my butt and stressing me out (that's why I haven't posted in a little while).

Sorting through 70 years

Our home is on the market. It's been cleaned, painted and manicured. One-third of the furniture is still in the rooms, placed just so for staging. And nearly all my mother's framed watercolors are on the walls. Everything else, the contents of two people's 70 years, along with the flotsam of five children's lives, was stashed out in the garage in the rush to get the house ready for the summer market. Our mission this week was to go through everything in the garage and disperse it or label it for sale. It's a large garage. And it had never (seriously. NEVER.) been cleaned out before, and now nearly the entire contents of the house were out there, too.

Everyone told me this was going to be a difficult week. "It'll be so emotional," they said. And it has. But not in the way everyone expected. The main emotion I felt during the whole week was "How could anyone accumulate so much useless STUFF?" Every No. 2 pencil in the county of Santa Barbara seems to have made its way to my mother and father's house, where (it seems) they were certain to find safe harbor. Baskets, too, found shelter at our little East Side home. If you've mailed anything to my parents, chances are good that the box and its packing material were saved for eventual re-use but are, as of this week, reposing in the recycling bin. And in the back of the garage, every can of paint, turpentine, spackel, and cleaning fluid my dad had ever used (partially or fully) sat waiting for us on their shelves under at least a quarter inch of accumulated dust. They're now stacked in a mighty, rusty drift beside the back fence, awaiting transport to the hazmat waste site.

On the bright side, my mother also kept every calendar she ever used. I'll go through those and read the chronicles of her days before I consign them to the recycler. She kept every card, letter, and note we ever wrote her; books we composed in 3rd grade (one grabby title penned by my cousin, then about 8: "The Mouse Who Was Tired of Living in a Hole"); pictures we crayoned or painted. She kept diaries. She saved vital records. She rescued personal memorabilia from my father, whose preference was to erase the evidence of his existence behind himself as he moved forward through his life.

And so we've had surprises as we've opened dusty boxes. There have been many "awwwww" moments, but no tears. All this week I have also kept up working for my day job, which has kept me going until midnight every night and up early every morning to make up for the afternoon hours spent in the garage. Call me stubborn, but I just can't take vacation time to do this work. I'll need real vacation time later. And later I'll linger over the things I have asked to take home, like the red fleece throw I found. I don't really love that throw, but my mother did and I found when I put it next to my cheek that it still smelled like her perfume. When I inhaled, it felt like my mother was standing next to me. Later, when that scent has faded, will I keep that throw? I can't say. But from what I keep I'll compose scrap books. Later, I'll deliver slides to be converted to photo files and photos to be duplicated and mailed. I'll turn in old cassette tapes of my mother's singing to be made into CDs to share with her friends and our family. All those things wait to be done. But tonight I just want to decompress. This week it's been just a long and often gritty slog, punctuated by screaming nieces and sibling politics, and I can't wait to go home.

That weird girl at the gym

I was in the gym yesterday, jogging on the treadmill and wondering when my body was going to relax so I could stop feeling like The Thing, who shakes the ground with every running stride. I was listening to my favorite music on my headphones, probably way too loud for my health, when I started crying. Right there in the aerobic room. Because it occurred to me that I could have played music for my mom as she lay dying in the early morning hours. I read that the last sense to leave is hearing. She loved music. I could have made her last hours a little easier. These are the kinds of thoughts that ambush me when I'm having an otherwise sensible day. I didn't stop running, because the sight of a woman in the gym, standing there on the treadmill crying, would be just way too weird. So I kept running and thinking. Few of us know anything about how to help someone who's dying. We just struggle to do the best we can. If we've called in Hospice, their volunteers seem to us to be pillars of knowledge. I wish I'd volunteered with Hospice while my mom was healthy, because I would have been a much better caregiver in later years if I had. But it never occurred to me to do that. Why would I want to be around dying people? Bad excuse: we are all people who are going to die. And Hospice trains its volunteers. I guess the point is that like Israeli citizens and the army, everyone should do a stint as a Hospice volunteer. Because then we'd be a better-armed nation of citizens.

Baking as therapy

Today is the hunky scientist's birthday. I have robbed the pram; he is eight years younger than I am. So I had no pity the other morning when he looked in the bathroom mirror and commented that he was starting to show his age. I love birthdays. He got his main birthday present a month or so ago (a watch). But I couldn't resist getting some comedy club tickets for tonight. Also, it's understood that I'll bake him whatever kind of birthday cake he wants. To say my boyfriend loves cake would be to call Niagara Falls a brook. My boyfriend adores cake with a passion that is endearing. When he eats cake, icing gets on his face. So I was looking forward to baking something multilayered with filling and a glaze or fluffy icing. But this year, he pointed out a recipe for cherry ricotta strudel in Bon Appetit and said "You can me me that" with hopeful, shiny eyes. Cakes I can do. Strudel I never have. Turns out strudel is a complex project. I started out last night with the dough--it's made with oil rather than butter and has to be refrigerated at least a day. And two pounds of large-curd ricotta cheese had to be drained overnight too, then squeezed out in a kitchen towel this morning.

After breakfast (pancakes with peanut butter and maple syrup for THS; I topped mine with fruit) I pitted 3 pounds of cherries and then set them soaking in a syrup of sugar, lemon juice and cointreau. Then I mixed the ricotta with butter and sugar, eggs and grated citrus peel. After that the recipe called for browning bread crumbs in a skillet with butter and mixing those with a bit more sugar. Finally, it was time to put the whole thing together. Strudel dough is made from oil so you can roll it very thin and stretch the heck out of it. A dough made from only 1.5 cups of flower rolls out to the size of a large kitchen towel! I stretched it until it was very thin, then brushed it with butter, topped that with the bread crumbs, made a log out of the ricotta filling along one side, then put the drained cherries on top of that. When I rolled it up, it looked like a huge banana slug. Now it's in the oven baking and the house smells like a birthday. As I type, I'm watching kids and dogs play in the park across the street. My heart is light.

Talk, write, exercise

Grief can make a person's mind do very strange things. For me, the last few days have been an exercise in keeping it together. I forget nearly everything if I don't write it down. I've resorted to entering calendar items in my phone on the spot if I tell someone I'll meet them or promise anyone anything. If I don't calendar it right away, I forget it. I send myself emails reminding myself to look at my calendar, to be sure I've met deliverables on certain projects at work, water the plants, call my brother, make my boyfriend a dessert for his birthday. I adore celebrating birthdays and ordinarily I'd never forget something like that. But I'm terrified I will. I feel as though I have brain damage. I'm still only getting 3 to 4 hours of sleep a night. I'm trying not to use Ambien and will ask my doctor about a non-addictive sleep aid. Meanwhile I've decided to follow the advice of a friend and start exercising daily in an effort to exhaust myself naturally. I had a visit with my company's very competent EAP guy today and after he listened a while he reminded me that it's early days in my grief process and that it might be helpful to cultivate some patience. "It's only been a month," he said. I looked at him for a minute, counting back and confirming. 32 days. It's really only been a month. I can't sleep, but I keep waiting to wake up. "It feels like it's been forever," I replied. He made me an appointment for short-term counseling with a psych and referred me to a Hospice grief support group. Then he gave me a prescription: "Talk, talk, talk. Write, write, write. And exercise."

Adrift in the night

When I was a very young child, my father spun vinyl and called the tunes at a radio station in Santa Barbara. Every day I'd walk home from first grade, come into the living room, and sit facing our big old stereo console. At 3 p.m. sharp, Dad would play me a Simon & Garfunkel song. He liked to play me "Cloudy" or "April Come She Will." The radio station that almost always plays in my mind has been turning that one lately:

April come she will
when streams are ripe and swelled with rain
May she will stay
resting in my arms again
June she'll change her tune
in restless walks she'll prowl the night
July she will fly
and give no warning to her flight...

My mind prowls the nights these days. It won't shut off and sleep rarely comes without medicinal aid. The two people whose DNA combined to make mine are gone and I am left with piles of memories and knee-jerk urges to lift the phone and call them. Small wonder part of me wishes I were where they are, if just for an hour or so, so we could talk. So I could see for myself them there together, happy, to confirm my imagination. But there will be no flying for me. I am at home here among the living, with my friends and my love and whatever my future will bring, as at home here as they are, there where they are.