Comma Dot Comma

The only true nature is the dry pine forest of my northern California childhood. That said, I’ve got a hankering for deciduous trees and what better place to see them than my former haunts of Baltimore and DC? Driving the parkway between the two cities, I used to imagine how long it would take the trees and vines to overcome the last vestiges of human artifacts, should we ever end our vigilance. Fifteen years, I thought. Greenness presses in on all sides and you have to work to hold it back. I never sense that in Arizona– the flora and fauna seem to be doing their level best just to survive, let alone overtake the rest of us. I do sometimes get the impression that the Sonoran environment is attempting to kill me,preferably within the next twenty minutes and by any means necessary, but that’s another story.

O! Deciduous trees! I thank you for not trying to kill me, and for providing shade to so many people I care about. I haven’t been back that way for about a year and this weekend I have the chance to connect, for a short time, with people I used to see on a weekly basis if not more. People with whom I have gone out on the town in bridesmaid dresses, swam in quarries, cried, argued, prayed, carried furniture in and out of houses and apartments,laughed at silly movies, danced to techno music, written poems, read fiction, gone on complicated diets, and generally lived life in a companionable way. I lift my can of diet soda to our shared history, and I can’t wait to see you all among the townhouses and the leafy trees.

Note: Some of the following instructions may not apply to all parties. Adjust accordingly.

1. Sleep. Get up at 2:40, when your perpetually awake spouse shakes your foot.
2. Stumble onto the balcony in your pajamas and sneakers, blinking at the sky.
3. Note how the bright edge of moon looks like something you could eat. And how blurry the edge is, throwing off lozenges of light.
4. Look at it through the monocular.
5. Look at it through the antique brass spyglass.
6. Look at it with the naked eye.
7. There it goes!
8. The moon is a dirty penny.
9. Through the spyglass, it is a pocked orange-brown rubber ball.
10. Take umbrage at the constant references to “blood red” in the press.
11. Blood can be many colors and none match the moon. Blood red indeed!
12. Announce that this is your first time watching a full eclipse.
13. It is not your first time. Several years ago, on another continent, you and the spouse stacked furniture in the hallway to climb through a hatch onto the roof. The moon was not full and the sky was cloudy. Then you called it a thumbprint.
14. It feels like the first time.
15. That’s got to count for something.
16. Stop counting. It’s the middle of the night.

http://www.space.com/news/070828_lunar_eclipse.html

In another age, we’d now be (almost) eligible to vote. As it is, they make it pretty hard to cross the boundary from renter to homeowner. The faxing! The initialing! The signing! The phone time! The wheedlers, the dealers, the “can I interest you in an upgrade” crowd! The financing process is something else. They make it nearly impossible to compare loan offers. We finally picked a loan and the loan fees magically increased by 500 bucks from the estimate we got in the morning, to the one we got four hours later. For the same loan. Hm!

We have a good realtor (if you’re in Phoenix and need a recommendation let me know) and were surprised and pleased by the deal we were able to get on a 1975 ranch house. The sellers are going to complete a two page bulleted list of repairs and improvements, which is awesome since I didn’t want to move into a house and then spend all my money and free time fixing things. Close date Sept 27th.

So I was curled up in a chair watching TV, scratching my left leg. I felt a little divot so I looked closer and rediscovered an old scar. It looks like the kind people used to get from smallpox vaccinations. Suddenly I was back in ninth grade, climbing on the bus. I swung my backpack into the seat and it smashed against my calf. Not unusual for me, but this time my improperly stowed drawing compass jammed into the meaty part. Yowch! It was as if my backpack had turned into a giant wasp. Puncture wounds, my favorite. Also, geometry. Another big favorite.

I remember that bus. In the afternoons I would sit near my friends Yvette and Joey, who never talked. Yvette never talked because she didn’t have much to say. Joey never talked because he preferred the challenge of drawing pictures in his school notebooks while the bus was jolting down decaying roads. In the mornings I would sit next to my friend Kara, who, even though she had kind of a hippie vibe, would stoop to wearing ribbons around her ponytail on game days. I’d have voted her Most Improbable Cheerleader if there had been a category for that.

Probably you saw this months ago, but it’s a fun send-up.

http://flickr.com/photos/zottestef/1185212993/

Karen tagged me for a post about my laundering habits. World, prepare to be astounded! It is a rare glimpse into the lives of the glamorous.
I tag Kate and Julie.

1. In your home, who does the laundry? I do about 3/4 of the laundry.
2. Do you sort your laundry? Yes, certainly.
3. If you sort, how many different color/fabric type groups do you sort it into? Whites, brights, blues, and browns
4. Do you hand wash anything? Nothing of Dr. G’s. About 10 things of my own.
5. Are there any articles of clothing that you send out to be cleaned professionally? Yes.
6. If you have any clothes cleaned professionally, is that drycleaning? Suits and fancy dresses get drycleaned. i like the idea of sending out shirts but have never done it.
7. At home, what detergent do you use? Any detergent additives that you regularly use? We just switched to high-efficiency and I haven’t landed on anything good yet.
8. What whiteners/brighteners do you use? an occasional glug of bleach in the whites.
9. Do you use any fabric softeners? I heard you’re not supposed to,but I use dryer sheets, using each one 2-3 times.
10. How do you handle stains? spray and wash
11. Do you use different water temperatures for your different loads? everything is “cold” but that’s a misnomer for the water temp that comes out of the plumbing here.
12. Do you use a tumble dryer, or do you hang your clothes to dry? both. I try to only run the dryer once for every two wash loads. Mostly socks, towels, t-shirts, and wrinkly stuff end up in the dryer.
13. In your home, who folds the clothes? Both of us.
14. Where do you fold your clothes? (i.e., in the laundry room, at the kitchen table, etc.) on the bed.
15. Who puts the folded clothes away? we each put away our own.
16. Do you have a certain day of the week you consider ”laundry day”? weekends. I like to let it build up for maximum efficiency.
17. About how many laundry loads do you do per week? three or four
18. Do you iron? Almost never.

I’ve been downgraded to a tropical depression

OUr complimentary breakfast was self-serve rice and beans, fruit, and bread out of tupperwares, onto none-too-clean plates. We dutifully ate a bit and escaped into town to explore the mercado centrale, a maze-like collection of booths selling everything from natural medicines to cheap Chinese imports. From there we hit a local art gallery where the proprietor failed to convince us that it was worth it to spend $800 on an undiscovered artist that we liked, and the jade museum, a dimly lit space full of pre-columbian carved stone. There was so much jade that after awhile we stopped feeling interested and impressed by each new example of a stool or piece of jewelry. Ho-hum, another giant carved monkey person. Then it was time to check out and leave San Jose for the car rental place and the airport, maybe 15 kilometers away. We allowed ourselves plenty of time to get lost finding our way out of the suburbs, and we needed it. At one multi-lane, five-way intersection the conversation got a little heated,but we made it out with marriage, good spirits, and navigational orientation intact. The sky was appropriately gloomy as we got in line at the airport, what was surely several days if not weeks too early. Ah, well, what can you do?

After the mountains, jungles, fields, and beaches, we were headed for the Big City: San Jose. By mid-afternoon the skies had opened and the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the mist and rain; there was nowhere to pull over so we inched along the dark roadway, following the red taillights in front of us. Finally we came across a sort of rest stop with a cafeteria and some souvenier stores where we could wait out the rain. The nice cafeteria ladies heaped my plate with food, though for some reason they didn’t give Dr. G, in line behind me, quite so much. I guess I have a more winsome expression. Our city maps of san jose listed street names and numbers, but we knew we wouldn’t be able to count on those driving into the city to our next B and B, the Hemingway Inn. As navigator I counted the blocks, noted major landmarks, and mentally marked one-way streets. Even so, we spent a good twenty minutes circling the downtown area before we got to a street that would allow us to approach the hotel from the right direction. The Inn was a cool-looking old colonial building filled with antiques. The guy at the desk seemed like he might be high, with his extra-wide, glassy eyes, and mile-a-minute, american-slang-peppered way of talking.

Oh well, he had our reservation and our room was ready. We’d just have to get a little wet to get there, since the only entrance was through a courtyard where the gutters on the eaves were broken. Make that a lot wet. The spacious corner room was named after Steinbeck and had big windows facing the streets, parrots in the tree outside, and an actual clock and cable TV. The drains in the street-level bathroom, however, reeked of sewer and we avoided it as much as we could and kept the door shut. After we dried out and got settled in, we walked into the city center to parade with the young folk up and down the cobblestone boulevard, blocked off from cars. The theater building filled a whole block, and there were parks and benches everywhere. The storefronts were a mix of american chain stores (Payless Shoe Source, anyone), fast food restaurants, and local specialty stores. We picked the nicest restaurant we could find, where my gazpacho arrived on a wooden artists pallet with chopped soup toppings arranged where the paint would be, and Dr. G received a chop salad bigger than his head in a swoopy white bowl. Back at the room, Ghostbusters was on television. There’s something strange… in your neighborhood. There’s something weird… and it don’t look good. Who you gonna call?