Comma Dot Comma

I can’t for the life of me figure out why I’m suddenly so efficient. Dr. G has been gone most of the week, gallivanting around the country presenting his research and whatnot, and I’ve been fending for myself on the homefront. This consists, in part, of sleeping poorly and having dreams of the pool overflowing in the backyard while a row of evil Harley Davidsons charges the front. I also start to say things and then sheepishly stop, suddenly realizing that no one is there. I miss my Dr. G and will be glad to have him back. And yet, with him gone, I get so much more done. The annoying pile of tangled necklaces has even been sorted through, each one dusted and hung on a peg board; the leather sofa has been treated with a protective salve and the cushions rotated; I hung a picture and deep-cleaned the kitchen, dug up a bunch of bamboo in the backyard and treated my tomato plants for whiteflies. This in addition to the usual routines.

The question is, why? There is nothing in particular that he and I do together that would prevent me from doing things that otherwise languish undone for weeks. Granted, he did not grow up, as I did, in a home where Saturday Chores held a spot of honor just below loving Jesus and honoring your parents. So, these days, when I occasionally “get my chore on” Dr. G. opts for the Duck and Cover response. He does not believe in the Implacable Force of Chore Doing that was practically a member of my family. Perhaps my knowing that he is not a chore-mania believer subconsciously dampens my task-based enthusiasm when he’s around. Or maybe it takes plenty of homemaking effort to simply live life together, to pay the proper attention to the one I love. Most of the time, I will happily neglect any number of chores to sit out on the back patio or watch 1950’s TV shows together.

Standing around with friends reeling off best madcap pranks: Caulking drawers shut, freezing all the mechanic’s tools in a five-gallon bucket of water, etc. I didn’t have any of my own so I trotted out my dad’s: putting a bunch of food coloring in the hot water heater, shutting off the electricity and painting the windows black. But this joke is pretty good, too, and Erik, the jokee, is kind for allowing the rest of us to enjoy it, even though he usually gets to be the funny one: e.g.,Living to Be 200. Hm, I forget, is it better to use i.e. or e.g. in that construction? Ah, well. Why am I using latin abbreviations in my blog posts anyway?

It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? Yikesy Daisies. Ok, brief rundown.

Christmas
My poor mom had an emergency root canal on Christmas Eve, but other than that the gang had fun in California, each of us patiently waiting for a turn at the Wii my sister brought with her. Yay guitar hero! The nephews lived up to the expected cuteness, with the youngest one (20 mos) demonstrating the lastest in dance moves. Step 1: Plant your feet as far apart as you can without falling over. Step 2: Stick your behind out as far as it will go, and keep it there. Wearing giant elmo slippers can help with balance. Step 3: When the music starts, lean from right to left like a skiier, shrugging your shoulders. Step 4: Once you get a good rhythm going, add hand motions to taste. Rockin!

2008
Do I have a resolution this year? No, not really. I would like to plant a tiny raised-bed kitchen garden, with a tomato, basil, cilantro, and jalepeno in it. I haven’t lived anywhere with even an outdoor porch since 2001, so this spring will be the first opportunity to try my hand at gardening as a grownup.

Doing a little recreating
I was laid low with a 10-day illness starting right after Christmas. Made matching coocoons in the bedroom and on the livingroom couch, and divided time between them. Read seven books and watched nine movies (latest discovery if you are the sort that likes the BBC miniseries Pride and Prejudice: North and South, also a BBC miniseries, set in industrial England in the mid 1800’s. Boy, the love interests in that one are going to have a loud marriage!). I’ve had quite a sickly year, the worst since I worked at the homeless shelter back in 1999. And that counts two years in a 3rd world country. This fact is making it more difficult for me to like Phoenix.

Food-related comment
Pozole is a yummy soup. You boil pork meat for about an hour with garlic, onion, and cumin. Then you skim off the fat, chop up the pork,and throw it back in the broth with some hominy, additional onion, crushed tomatoes, ancho chili paste, boullion, and chili powder. Let it cook another hour. Float fresh cabbage, avocado, radish, and lime on top to serve.

May whatever peace and joy you have be doubled and tripled this holiday season.

We are off to California to see the fam. I guess that means oh, half my readership will be in my presence for the next weekish. We were going to try to drive there via Chicken Springs Road but I think I got Dr. G to give up on the idea.

Later, Gators!

My youngest brother returned from a backpacking trip with his roommates to find a disturbing voicemail from his landlord on the cell phone. “WHAT is the meaning of this?” she asked. His roomates all had similar messages. They knew it must have something to do with the open house. She had called them all constantly in the days leading up to the trip, to make sure everything in the house would be just right and none of the quirky college guys would be around when potential buyers came through. Like good renters, the boys did their duty, cleaning and tidying and absenting themselves. What could it be? they wondered. Did they overlook something?

Well, just one little thing: A dozen signs taped all over the house, threatening violence and destruction in giant red letters.
“You dine in hell tonight!”
“A thousand nations descend upon you! Our arrows will blot out the sun!”
“Picture it reduced to ash at my whim.”

and so on.

They were quotes from the movie 300– decorations for a movie-watching party the guys had held the night before their trip. Whoops. It created a very nice, homey feel, as you might imagine.

Well, I had a little crash-and-burn after my trip east. It was great to see folks. Thanks again for rushing back from out of town trips, ducking out of work a few hours early, driving fair distances with small children, feeding me, chauffeuring me around, and otherwise making my visit great.

One thing I didn’t do was maintain my rigorous health regimen to keep a chronic sinus infection at bay (yes, that same one from back in June that two rounds of antibiotics couldn’t subdue). It knocked me flat for a couple days, but now I’m back in the saddle with a killer-diller new antibiotic, hospital strength. I am to get my face scanned by a big machine and also avoid direct sunlight. That could be tough.

Last time I was on antibiotics like this was in the Peace Corps when I got dysentary from eating questionable street food. After you have dysentary for a day, you realize why so many people on that Oregon Trail computer game die of it. Then modern medicine swoops in like a superhero and you can’t believe your good fortune.

A few trip highlights later.

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.

I’m happy to report that the family camping trip was not a bit exciting! We were on a lake shore near Tahoe, where Dr. G and I marvelled at how benign the outdoors were. The biggest threat I faced was getting tree sap on me, although Dr. G did sustain a pine-cone related injury in the last hour we were there. The trees were shaggy and shady, the ground soft with dirt and pine needles, the water plentiful. We fished, hiked, swam, explored a creek, built forts, and hung out around the campfire playing non-competitive games. (Question: If you could control anyone’s mind in addition to your own, whose would it be? Answer from an inlaw: Steve (my dad)HMMMMM…)

We wore T-shirts during the day and sweatshirts in the evenings. We were peppered with hard-to-answer questions from my practically-four-year-old-nephew (”Why doesn’t the fish want to die?” “Why do some people deserve bad things?”) and helped maintain a constant perimeter around dangerous areas to screen out my troublingly mobile one-year-old nephew. We were nine adults to one baby and he still broke through occasionally. Maybe he has a future as an affectionate, talkative smuggler. “YumYUMyumYUMyum!” he will say to his clients about the black market caviar hidden on his person. “Bubbles! Coooool!”

Hanging out with my family is like being part of the in crowd. We’re a noticeable bunch, partly because there are so many of us (11) and partly because the members convey an image of tallness and stylishness (I’m among the shortest) and a knack for telling stories. When we go somewhere as a group, strangers sneak up to the fringes to hear a joke or figure out the rules to the complicated rock-throwing contest we have devised. It’s fun to be an insider for a few days. I usually don’t get to be one. And, oh, we saw a golden eagle swooping up from the lake with fish in its claws. That was nice, too.

I’ll be in California until Sunday night, camping with my entire family, whose members ranging in age from one year old to mid-fifties. The good thing about camping as opposed to all hanging out in the same house is that you can run off into the woods when things start to get crazy. I love the crazy, and I love escaping the crazy. I expressly requested Smores for the menu, which are a delight at any age.

The hormonal maelstrom of my tween and early teen years coincided with major family upheaval.  There was a new baby, a new house, and some serious religious conflict thrown in for good measure.  I shared a room with my little sister, and thankfully in the new house (which our grandparents sold to us) we didn’t have to have our beds in bunks anymore, but I still felt suffocated.  The house had wooden floors and you could hear people  stomping around day and night.  There was always noise– my youngest brother crying, music playing, tense discussions, the phone ringing.  I would record popular songs offof the radio and use them to make up dance routines in the family room. I’d fill to the trembling point with fury when my sister innocently tried to join me because it looked fun.  I called it “copying.”  Was there not one activity, one corner of the house that I could claim as my own?

One day my mom noticed that I wasn’t around.  I was usually pretty quiet, but she could generally spot me hanging upside down off of the couch with a magazine or inspecting my complexion in the guest bathroom as she hurried from room to room, taking care of the baby and maintaing order.  The way my mom tells it, she opened the door to the deep linen closet in the hallway and was surprised  to find me curled up in the space between the floor and the bottom shelf with a flashlight and a book. 

I don’t remember exactly what conversation we had, but I do remember the outcome.  Where other people might tenderly laugh off their quirky child’s behavior, she took me seriously and  took action.  I couldn’t have my own room, but we did have a sturdy storage shed in the back where my grandmother had kept emergency food supplies in days gone by.  Mom cleared out the junk from the back room of the shed and cleaned and put down some leftover carpet. She painted it pink and yellow with an art-deco looking bicycle and my dad made a plywood desk.  Then my mom outfitted it with a chair, a space heater, a lock, and a sign that said “Private!” I could go in there whenever I wanted and I didn’t have to share.

At first I used it a lot. My brother and sister didn’t like it that I could just go in there and shut the door.  They’d stand outside it and whisper and knock. Eventually they lost interest. After a time, my visits to the Private Room dropped off. In many cases just knowing it was there if I needed it was enough.

As Mother’s Day approaches, I’m thinking about that season, when my mom found room amid her many responsibilities and private worries to notice my situation.  She didn’t just give comforting words; she took on a major project and enlisted other family members to help her complete it, and saved my bacon. Even today that kind of sacrificial giving for her kids and grandkids is a natural part of her life, shaped through years of practice. Thanks, mom.