Do other people do odd things when they're by themselves? I sometimes wonder what strange things would show up if I were on camera during the day when I'm alone. Do other people dance while waiting for their bread to toast? Do other people walk up and down the stairs repeatedly while eating a banana? Do other people add sound effects to dishing up lunch?
I only ask this because it's very cold in our house today. (Day two with no heat. I don't want to talk about it.) Cold is just one of those things that you deal with in a patchy fashion - there's not normally a real plan to prevent being cold, so the end effect is usually something very uncoordinated. For instance, this morning, I realized that I was in green and blue plaid pants and a red, green and white plaid shirt with pink fuzzy slippers. That, in and of itself, is a bit odd although perhaps acceptable, but I also had mismatched brown trouser socks on my hands with my sleeves tucked into the cuffs. I will also confess that I didn't want the trouble of retucking them, so I just ate a few crackers out of the box with my sock paws. Reading was a bit tricky, until I figured out how to turn the pages with my bookmark. Clearly, one of the primary functions of society is to prevent exactly this sort of thing, but it's equally clear that inventiveness only happens when one is free from concern about what other people think. Is it just me, or is all of life contradictory? And even more important, is everyone as strange when left alone?
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
No Sleep Till ...?
I'm attempting to break a napping addiction. Between my medication, anxiety, the weather, the holidays, etc., I've become a nap junkie. In fact, I'm not sure that "nap" even covers it any longer. "Nap" is too polite a word for sleeping all night and then another four hours plus during the day.
It started off innocently enough - just take a little rest in the morning after a rough night of sleep. And the next thing I know, I'm going back to bed, sleeping until 10:30, working, taking another nap later in the day that's only as short as it is because Andrew comes home, working in the evening to catch up, staying up late because I can't sleep, and then starting the whole thing over again the next day. The insomnia at night has been useful. I read, I work, I wander around the house, but even when I do sleep at night, the next day I'm still exhausted.
So, operating on the theory that sleep begets more sleep, I'm attempting to break the habit. No caffeine after 8:00, and less of it during the day. A sleeping pill every night for one week to reestablish sleep patterns. Warm milk before bed, and bed at the same time every night. I've even gone so far as to create a success chart for myself and offer bribes for making it through January and February without sleeping. It's early days, so I'm still in that hopeful stage of withdrawal, the "this is going to be a breeze" stage. I feel like a Civil War soldier: I'll have this problem whipped and be home in time for dinner!
The reality, however, is that it's a little like not having electricity. You know how that goes when the power is out, and you think, "Well, I'll just fold this laundry, light a candle and make myself a mug of tea. Oh. Right. I can't boil water." or "It's a little cold in here. I'll get a blanket, put on a sweatshirt and turn on the space heater." I keep making these little plans for my day, doing this, then that, then taking a nap, then.... Oh. *sigh*
It started off innocently enough - just take a little rest in the morning after a rough night of sleep. And the next thing I know, I'm going back to bed, sleeping until 10:30, working, taking another nap later in the day that's only as short as it is because Andrew comes home, working in the evening to catch up, staying up late because I can't sleep, and then starting the whole thing over again the next day. The insomnia at night has been useful. I read, I work, I wander around the house, but even when I do sleep at night, the next day I'm still exhausted.
So, operating on the theory that sleep begets more sleep, I'm attempting to break the habit. No caffeine after 8:00, and less of it during the day. A sleeping pill every night for one week to reestablish sleep patterns. Warm milk before bed, and bed at the same time every night. I've even gone so far as to create a success chart for myself and offer bribes for making it through January and February without sleeping. It's early days, so I'm still in that hopeful stage of withdrawal, the "this is going to be a breeze" stage. I feel like a Civil War soldier: I'll have this problem whipped and be home in time for dinner!
The reality, however, is that it's a little like not having electricity. You know how that goes when the power is out, and you think, "Well, I'll just fold this laundry, light a candle and make myself a mug of tea. Oh. Right. I can't boil water." or "It's a little cold in here. I'll get a blanket, put on a sweatshirt and turn on the space heater." I keep making these little plans for my day, doing this, then that, then taking a nap, then.... Oh. *sigh*
Monday, December 15, 2008
Monday
"Cross" is the only word for me today. And maybe "cranky." It's rainy, the temperature's dropped about 20 degrees in two hours, but I still don't get the benefit of at least having snow as the precipitation du jour. I'm behind on laundry and not interested in catching up. It took forever for me to fall asleep last night, just humming to myself in the dark, positive that the next gust of wind was going to remove a slate or the weathervane or one of those tentatively-attached limbs over the driveway. When I woke up this morning, it was from a dream of listing endless pages of auction consignments. Christmas shopping and wrapping is done, so I'm at the stage where I'm just worrying over money spent, which is compounded by the dread of estimated tax payments. I'd rather be reading the new novel I started last night or sitting around in my pajamas and watching Remember the Night, but here I am, neatly dressed so as not to scandalize any shipping agent who might be delivering package. And I'm stuck with the dull work of finishing up a newsletter, which mostly just feels like "blah, blah, blah" at this point, which my cynical self says won't even get read. And to top it all off, someone had the chance to throw shoes at the current president and they missed. AND this happened while The Daily Show was on hiatus. Tell me again why I got out of bed?
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
November in Review
My, but I was reading "smart" stuff last month! I polished off five books, including The Hemingses of Monticello, which was massive. I didn't finish it until November 16, and then after that it was like a dam broke, and the other four books quickly followed.
Annette Gordon-Reed's The Hemingses of Monticello was eye-opening, but I think in some ways, I came away with more questions about history than answers. If you asked me why we decided to cancel a trip to visit friends, there would be less likely to be one reason and more likely to be dozens of factors: the possibility of bad weather, the pile of laundry at home, a lingering cold, two extra-long days of work during the previous week, etc. For someone to assess that decision from the remote world of the future someday and to proclaim me a bad friend or in general poor health would be to leap a large chasm of my reasoning. I just came away by how tenuous history is, how fragile some of our assumptions and arguments are. That said, Gordon-Reed has written a fascinating biography of one of the most well-documented early African-Americana families, and she manages as best she can, considering how little we're able to know about their thoughts and motivations.
After that I chewed through Into the Wild, which I wrote about earlier, and was reminded again how much I enjoy Jon Krakauer's writing. It's a sad story, almost, oddly, like the story of the Hemingses - something that we can't explain and a position we find it difficult to put ourselves into as readers, but by the end, it's one that we can come a little closer to. It takes a great deal of compassion to make people capable of venturing closer to a position or act that they would reject completely upon initial examination.
Sarah Vowell's The Wordy Shipmates followed, and it was just what you'd expect - snarky, entertaining, filled with little oddments and insights. The Puritans were an odd bunch, and the discussion of their "city on a hill" and how we came to co-op that as an American vision, while neglecting the sense of responsibility they felt was fascinating. It's one of the basic elements of tragedy - good intentions that somehow result in abhorrent offshoots. I realize that history doesn't often come with nifty endings, tied up neatly in a timely fashion, but I did feel that things sort of fell of a cliff at the end. It was as if the contract was for 200 pages, and somewhere around page 197, there was a realization that things needed to be wrapped up. Leaping over three hundred years of history, the Puritans are linked to John F. Kennedy. I know 21st-century politics aren't really Vowell's bailiwick, but I still would have liked a little more analysis about how the path we set our feet on then got us to the path we're on now.
Somewhere in the midst of all this, we managed to sneak in listening to Kate DiCamillo's The Tale of Despereaux. I'm intrigued to see the movie, and all I can say is good for DiCamillo for avoid overly precious endings with everything too neatly tied up. (I know, I know - I'm nothing if not a walking contradiction.) Despereaux's big heart, bravery and commitment to doing the right thing were wonderful, and I look forward to seeing his big ears on the big screen.
Finally, I found Susan Fletcher's Eve Green. I made a note almost three years ago of the title after reading a pre-pub review in Library Journal, and it's stuck with me all this time. I was glad that it did. As someone who's so often homesick, not so much for family as just for a landscape and a way of life, Susan Fletcher nails down the desperate love of a place, and the beautiful part is that she doesn't even try to explain why she loves it. She just does. Love is like that. This was a gentle story that probably didn't fare well after being classified by many as a mystery. (Why, why, WHY do we have to overclassify everything?!) It's really the musings of a pregnant woman, looking back on her childhood, trying to make peace with the child she was before she brings her own child into the world. I loved it. Again, not a sledgehammer to the forehead, but a meandering story of memory and family and place. And confirmation that I really like Whitbread award winners, which I also made a note of. Let's hope it doesn't take me another three years to follow up on it!
Annette Gordon-Reed's The Hemingses of Monticello was eye-opening, but I think in some ways, I came away with more questions about history than answers. If you asked me why we decided to cancel a trip to visit friends, there would be less likely to be one reason and more likely to be dozens of factors: the possibility of bad weather, the pile of laundry at home, a lingering cold, two extra-long days of work during the previous week, etc. For someone to assess that decision from the remote world of the future someday and to proclaim me a bad friend or in general poor health would be to leap a large chasm of my reasoning. I just came away by how tenuous history is, how fragile some of our assumptions and arguments are. That said, Gordon-Reed has written a fascinating biography of one of the most well-documented early African-Americana families, and she manages as best she can, considering how little we're able to know about their thoughts and motivations.
After that I chewed through Into the Wild, which I wrote about earlier, and was reminded again how much I enjoy Jon Krakauer's writing. It's a sad story, almost, oddly, like the story of the Hemingses - something that we can't explain and a position we find it difficult to put ourselves into as readers, but by the end, it's one that we can come a little closer to. It takes a great deal of compassion to make people capable of venturing closer to a position or act that they would reject completely upon initial examination.
Sarah Vowell's The Wordy Shipmates followed, and it was just what you'd expect - snarky, entertaining, filled with little oddments and insights. The Puritans were an odd bunch, and the discussion of their "city on a hill" and how we came to co-op that as an American vision, while neglecting the sense of responsibility they felt was fascinating. It's one of the basic elements of tragedy - good intentions that somehow result in abhorrent offshoots. I realize that history doesn't often come with nifty endings, tied up neatly in a timely fashion, but I did feel that things sort of fell of a cliff at the end. It was as if the contract was for 200 pages, and somewhere around page 197, there was a realization that things needed to be wrapped up. Leaping over three hundred years of history, the Puritans are linked to John F. Kennedy. I know 21st-century politics aren't really Vowell's bailiwick, but I still would have liked a little more analysis about how the path we set our feet on then got us to the path we're on now.
Somewhere in the midst of all this, we managed to sneak in listening to Kate DiCamillo's The Tale of Despereaux. I'm intrigued to see the movie, and all I can say is good for DiCamillo for avoid overly precious endings with everything too neatly tied up. (I know, I know - I'm nothing if not a walking contradiction.) Despereaux's big heart, bravery and commitment to doing the right thing were wonderful, and I look forward to seeing his big ears on the big screen.
Finally, I found Susan Fletcher's Eve Green. I made a note almost three years ago of the title after reading a pre-pub review in Library Journal, and it's stuck with me all this time. I was glad that it did. As someone who's so often homesick, not so much for family as just for a landscape and a way of life, Susan Fletcher nails down the desperate love of a place, and the beautiful part is that she doesn't even try to explain why she loves it. She just does. Love is like that. This was a gentle story that probably didn't fare well after being classified by many as a mystery. (Why, why, WHY do we have to overclassify everything?!) It's really the musings of a pregnant woman, looking back on her childhood, trying to make peace with the child she was before she brings her own child into the world. I loved it. Again, not a sledgehammer to the forehead, but a meandering story of memory and family and place. And confirmation that I really like Whitbread award winners, which I also made a note of. Let's hope it doesn't take me another three years to follow up on it!
Friday, December 5, 2008
Talpidae and Muridae
It might sound like a Shakespearean play, but it's actually the fuzzy infestation happening over here. One night this week, while reading in bed, I heard violent squeaking and rushed downstairs to discover that Charlie (aka Charles Manson) had discovered a mole.
What a mole was doing in the house, at night, I don't know. Running is certainly not the answer. Moles on a hardwood floor are less like pedestrians and more like curling stones, especially when an overzealous cat is involved. Fortunately, he found his way into the bottom of a milk crate of things set out for my brother, and I managed to carry him outside. Unlike mice, who are always looking for opportunities to escape, moles are actually very like Kenneth Graham's Mole: well-meaning, but not quick-witted. He stayed in the bottom of the milk crate, obligingly shifting out of my way as I removed every single object, and then he left by a hole in the side. I sort of liked thinking that after he hurried home, breathless and rattled, he slipped into a smoking jacket, propped his little webby feet on an ottoman, and had a cup of tea to soothe his nerves. He's rehomed now, snug under the brick walk, and probably working on his sequel to The Wind in the Willows as we speak. Written long hand on thick paper with a fountain pen, of course.
My husband actually asked me in all seriousness the next day if it could have been a vole. It was midnight, it was freezing, and I was standing on the porch in nothing but clogs and a fleece jacket, hoping no one was out and and about. I'm not sure whether I was more insulted that he'd think I wouldn't know the difference or that he actually expected me to have taken a closer look in that condition. While I always wanted to be as dignified and together as Badger, I'm afraid that I'm more like the washerwoman....
And today, after finishing my lunch, I noticed the cats starring at the bottom of my knitting basket. When cats stay awake long enough to do anything other than pester me, it's worth paying attention to. Anyway, they had cornered a mouse, who, when I moved the basket, darted around to the other side of the couch. While I went to empty my mouse-catching box (it's filled up after months of disuse), he managed to attempt an escape between the baseboards and the floor. I say attempt, because what he really ended up doing was getting his head quite firmly stuck. Panicked AND undignified, a combination I try to avoid, but then again, see previous mole-related exploits. He's taken up residence under the outhouse, hopefully consoling himself with some week-old asiago cheese bread that I put out as an apology for the rough treatment he received as our guest.
Honestly, I'm beginning to feel like a low-rent Marlin Perkins over here!
What a mole was doing in the house, at night, I don't know. Running is certainly not the answer. Moles on a hardwood floor are less like pedestrians and more like curling stones, especially when an overzealous cat is involved. Fortunately, he found his way into the bottom of a milk crate of things set out for my brother, and I managed to carry him outside. Unlike mice, who are always looking for opportunities to escape, moles are actually very like Kenneth Graham's Mole: well-meaning, but not quick-witted. He stayed in the bottom of the milk crate, obligingly shifting out of my way as I removed every single object, and then he left by a hole in the side. I sort of liked thinking that after he hurried home, breathless and rattled, he slipped into a smoking jacket, propped his little webby feet on an ottoman, and had a cup of tea to soothe his nerves. He's rehomed now, snug under the brick walk, and probably working on his sequel to The Wind in the Willows as we speak. Written long hand on thick paper with a fountain pen, of course.
My husband actually asked me in all seriousness the next day if it could have been a vole. It was midnight, it was freezing, and I was standing on the porch in nothing but clogs and a fleece jacket, hoping no one was out and and about. I'm not sure whether I was more insulted that he'd think I wouldn't know the difference or that he actually expected me to have taken a closer look in that condition. While I always wanted to be as dignified and together as Badger, I'm afraid that I'm more like the washerwoman....
And today, after finishing my lunch, I noticed the cats starring at the bottom of my knitting basket. When cats stay awake long enough to do anything other than pester me, it's worth paying attention to. Anyway, they had cornered a mouse, who, when I moved the basket, darted around to the other side of the couch. While I went to empty my mouse-catching box (it's filled up after months of disuse), he managed to attempt an escape between the baseboards and the floor. I say attempt, because what he really ended up doing was getting his head quite firmly stuck. Panicked AND undignified, a combination I try to avoid, but then again, see previous mole-related exploits. He's taken up residence under the outhouse, hopefully consoling himself with some week-old asiago cheese bread that I put out as an apology for the rough treatment he received as our guest.
Honestly, I'm beginning to feel like a low-rent Marlin Perkins over here!
Cilia
Bronchial cilia and positive visualization - not so much these days. Normally, when I think about all my little cilia, I see them standing at attention, alert and bright-eyed, wafting with a hum of productivity and efficiency. Then illness comes along, institutes new policies that make no sense to anyone and requires that they fill out everything in triplicate, and suddenly, they're squashed under the bureaucracy of mucus, which doesn't do much for workplace morale. Blech.
Meanwhile, things to contemplate while lying on the couch: my next popsicle, a bath, and the mucus/bureaucracy metaphor....
Meanwhile, things to contemplate while lying on the couch: my next popsicle, a bath, and the mucus/bureaucracy metaphor....
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