Spinning wheels

Never has time pushed ahead so forcefully, never have so many changes happened in such a brief period of time. When I am not on my bike, I am pressing the pedal hard to the board. And still, most of the big stuff lies ahead of me.

I'm thinking of resorting to crossword puzzles -- endless numbers of them, as a calming device.

Guilt: I have tremendous amounts of guilt for giving up on eating places where our faces were one time so familiar that waiters would slide us in ahead of long lines.

Last night, four of us went to such a place for a quick burger. Though these days three of us are not ordering burgers for one reason or another. How do you even deal with that? We sit down and study the menu at a burger joint looking for burger alternatives. And the we choose salads. Who wants to photograph a salad? Not me.

Two of us then went to the sweetest bar I've seen in Madison. Very cozy. Just two tables. Brand new. Again, this newness is flying all around me. We sat down to a long and wonderful talk with Ann and Tonya...

green drink, blue foot

red drink, blue jeans

...and then we made our way to the (very close, because, of course, it's downtown!) loft.

Most of the loft furniture arrived this morning and I have been working like a madwoman putting the pieces together. But last night it was still nearly empty. We sat on the floor and did flips and rolled and I did my famous headstand.

Mostly we kept our eyes glues to the walls hoping to see a few centipedes.

I recommend it: taking friends to new places before the places get filled with a new life there.


little S

the Tonya Show

the Althouse author

[Sadly, this little one was out and about and so she could not join us]:

little C

But this morning the wheels started spinning again. Getting the house ready for showings, opening the door to a new couch at the loft, pausing for a Marigold breakfast and then building an island.

No, I was not strong enough to right it after putting it together. It is laying on its side waiting for a burly guy to come and sweep it to its feet. I will keep these wheels locked, I will! There is enough spinning in my life elsewhere.

UPDATE: Burly man found. The island is upright. The wheels are locked.

Pondering existential matters and dead batteries

My life today is about dead cars and unplugged phones and missed deliveries and weedy yards and shiny floor surfaces (all the above required my attention).

How can that overwhelm anyone? Thay're just things and boring things at that. And yet..

Overheard

My first post from the loft (dial-up). I am sitting here mulling over bits and pieces of conversation overheard at a loft party. What do I make of all this? I catch the following:

They are harmless, harmless! But they move fast. I don't kill them, I capture them in a cup and set them free (a propos house centipedes, occasionally seen scurrying around on the warehouse brick walls)...

...I moved here from California and so I am used to basically subsisting on Tader Joe's. No, I will not shop at Willie Street Co-op. I don't care if it's equidistant (to Whole Foods). I went there this week and everything was wheat free or gluten free. What the hell is wrong with wheat? It's not as if we kill anyone to eat wheat. And I bought eggos. Okay so I like eggos. The bagger was actually frowning at this. I want eggos sans commentary!

I happen to know the private number to some pretty important people at Trader Joe's. I called them and said -- help! I've been in Wisconsin two weeks now and I am running out of things to eat! Can you tell me please when your store is moving here? Last quarter of 2006?? I'll starve!

So Nina, when I heard you're moving in to these lofts, I thought: holy crap, I read her blog. I should mention, I have my own blog. In fact, you link to it. You shouldn't -- I'm sort of quitting writing.

...Sure you can hear the noise of your neighbors! But think of it -- you'll be walking distance to campus. You're downtown.

The brick dust? It's not really dust, it's grit. If you wipe it off the surfaces that abut the walls daily, you should be fine.

They're great lofts, they really are!

Maybe it's like New Yorkers listing faults with the city they love to hate and hate when others talk dismissively of it. Many here are actually from NY or the environs. Maybe after all the flecks of tar, the house centipedes, the brick dust get cleared up with the coming of winter, we'll find ourselves wishing there was something else to wail about. Because really, if you want a quiet ride, you can move to the suburbs. You will not be disappointed. Plenty of quiet there. Yawn.

A Madison story

There is this pack of former Badger Cab drivers that I have gotten to know. A diverse and good bunch of people, always willing to lend a hand in perplexing situations. So it is fitting that I should ask one of them to help me install pantry shelves at the loft today.

I bought these dang blasted wire wracks at Home Dept after much contemplation and consideration of various other alternatives. Average shelves – white, laminated – you know the type: like you see in ads for California Closets.

I called Kevin, one of the former cabbies and he came over to the loft this afternoon.

No good, he tells me. Flimsy. And the wall is hollow. What do you expect to put on them anyway?
Well, foods and stuff. Pantry things. Vanilla, chocolate, Arborio rice.

Flimsy. Take them back.

This from a man who owns a junk shop on Willie Street and seems to hoard everything (rather than himself returning things at Home Depot).

Okay, fine. Where did I go wrong and what do I do now?

Go to the restaurant supply store off of Atwood (we’re talkin’ deep east side Madison here) and buy Metro line restaurant units. (He would say that, being himself a former restaurant cook.)

We went together and I was mesmerized by the place. I cannot believe I have never shopped here before! Oh, I cannot believe I have never entered these hallowed halls and lovingly caressed the likes of these:



The Metro shelving units were perfect. We lugged them back to the loft and he set to work showing me how they fit together.

A Madisonian, he was. New Age this and that, with politics to match the neighborhood he inhabits. As he packs up to go, I tell him that I cannot give him a ride back – I am already late in cooking dinner for the family back at the (suburban, unsold, okay, lay it on - headache of a) home.

No, no problem, he tells me. I like to walk. Besides, I have to stop at the Soap Opera.
Why there?
It’s the only place in town that sells the Sandalwood soap I like. The one from France. I need to inhale its aroma to stay sound.

p.s. He loved the loft. The loft has bred no malcontents thus far. Yay loft.

Just wondering…

Hey, did I see you on Mineral Point on the bike yesterday, early in the evening?
Yes.

Was there a rolled-up carpet precariously balanced on the back seat?
Yes.

What the hell was that? A scrap of the Real Thing maybe?
Yes.

What were you planning to do with it – put it by the door of your new loft?
Yes.

…So that people with muddy shoes would know to take off their footwear as they enter and not soil the pristine white(-ish) carpet inside?
Yes.

And you think this will do the trick?
No.

Walking with a bounce

If you take walking desires of daughter no.1, add them to walking desires of daughter no.2 and then multiply them by my own, you basically got yourself on heapin’ Sunday of walking.

My daughters are relentless, covering the west and east side of the isthmus in record time. We return home, then set out again in search of innovative food and drink. Late at night, I sit down to write, except I am so tired that I fall asleep at the computer.

To be happy. Where does this ephemeral state of contentment come from? Here’s one trick that always works: think back to the closest people in your life. Pick out the ones you can bounce words with in such a way that not only you, but all those sharing your space start to grin as well. The positive energy overwhelms the hour and suddenly the meal, the walk through a city, the pause over a cappuccino or a latte is filled with such joy that you completely forget about all the smoldering fires in the darker corners of your life.

My daughters belong to this select group of glorious word bouncers. When we set an hour into “play” mode, it is impossible not to succumb to joy. How could it be otherwise?

New York has SoHo, NoHo and TriBeCa. Until this day, I did not know Madison had its own: SoJo (South of Johnson).

Madison walk: it's all in the legs

Madison walk: is he mad? not likely. only a painter in Mad City.

Madison walk: competition for my own wild garden

Big sky

When I first moved to Wisconsin, more than 25 years ago, I was completely overwhelmed by the sky. Somehow it seemed to occupy more space than it deserved – there was more of it in proportion to land.

Last night, my east-coast residing daughters, home for a visit, were dazzled by the sunset. Though I sharpened the tones a little, I did not tamper with the colors themselves – the photos in the post below are quite authentic.

But it was also the clarity that they found so breathtakingly beautiful. Out east, the everpresent haze means that the sharp brilliance of the blue sky is a rare thing. More often, the sky hovers between a murky gray and a fuzzy slate blue.

Why should it matter? It’s only sky – nothingness filtered through ozone layers. Why be impressed by it? Why demand of it anything other than that it not deliver horrible damaging rain and sleet?

Like oceans and lakes, skies in their vastness have the power to set moods. Night stars, layers of storm clouds, clear days all provide contrasts that cause you to react. You cannot be indifferent to it. You confront it. And here, in Madison, there is much to react to. There’s a huge sky out there, there really is.


Sunday morning bike ride

Running

When there is too much day within a day, then the energy level to write anything sensible about it goes WAY down.

You will understand how impossibly packed this day was when I tell you that I was off of the Net from 6:30 am until my brief and inconsequential post in the late afternoon. Completely un-Nina like.

It was ye old Saturday filled with the predictable: the Market, the Goodwill, the furniture delivery and deliberations, etc. Oh, but how wonderful to have the Law School reunion continue right there in the loft! It is a given that people who were mutually supportive in early years would continue to lend a hand now. [Sometimes, in the past, you'd get so lost in the quagmire of home tasks, school tasks, little infant demands and everything in between that you would desperately want someone else to just decide for you on how to proceed. Today, I felt that way about the consequential task of placing a table in a good location.]


arranging

combining

photographing

Running: chasing down the essentials. Elluding the rain. Wishing it would not come down so hard as to get everything wet in the car that was left with open windows.

But then, in the later afternoon my attention shifted with the arrival of my daughters.

And still, the running theme continues: Home, store, loft, and finally -- screw it all, let's go have our seared Ahi tuna, along with some potent colorful drinks at our favorite State Street drink generating place.



And there is always the poster boy for State Street spray painting to admire. And B & J ice cream to eat...





And driving home, the loud music and the loud voices and the setting sun that makes it that much more spectacular.


so vivid

so matched to the Dar song playing on an old truck tape

It's just that the energy to create a story out of it all is ... significantly diminished.

Yes, I will post today

...but it will be late.

...though with photos.

...not very good ones.

...so it goes.

Now, pause with your life and go back a few years…

…to when you were a student.

Academics have a way of recalling their halcyon days of studenthood by coming together during annual professional meetings and clicking their cell phones like crazy to connect and reconnect, in various configurations and groups of past associates and long-time friends. All you need is your annual convention and a working cell phone and you are set.

Law school doesn’t offer the same opportunities. Oh, sure, there are more meetings than there are flakes of oats in a bowl of granola (I’m having a snack and my mind is wondering to the food in front of me) – ABA, AALS, L&S, various CLE’s – put together any permutation of letters in the alphabet and you’ve got yourself a legal meeting! And most are large, anonymous, with nary a soul from your law school cohort.

And it is a shame, because more likely than not, your law school pals will have formed a tight and enduring set.

My own consisted of 4. We were different from the rest. We had small children (both of my daughters were born when I was a law student; don’t asked me how I did it – call it the greatest endurance trip of all time, made possible by basically no sleep).

All but me left Madison. So I am the one who looks around and says oh this town is the same old same old, and they say (when they are back here) – Jesus, this place has changed (actually, they don’t say Jesus anything, they are as respectful of religion, as I am, except that this word serves like such a good exclamation point before a sentence so that I forget myself)!

Tonight they came back to Madison – some just for one night. It’s not really about catching up. It’s about being able to step back and redescribe yourself in a plausible way, without pity, without bragging.

They are slightly older than me, but they are patient with my jumps and leaps in life. We’ve played together, traveled together with and without our children, we’ve gone through periods of terrible illness and wonderful hope, we’ve all abandoned law firm jobs in favor of doing something different.

And really most importantly, we raised children. Our children were there, getting sick during our finals. They clung to us and we to them. It’s like “mommy, mommy do not leave me for that awful class!” “I have to go, dearest, besides, it’s not awful.” “You said it’s awful, you said! Besides, we are your children…” I wont even admit how many times they got me on that one, leaving me to chuck whatever unfulfilled obligation I had in favor of singing along to Ernie and Bert.

...when I jump out, you jump in…

There is a hell of a lot of hopscotching and jump-roping going on this week-end. Or maybe it is more like a dust storm, swirling masses of people, furniture and various and sundry items, round up in the air, only to land them in interesting and different places.

Today alone, a blogger packs up and leaves (amidst dust balls swirling in his now abandoned RV) and four law school friends stage a reunion (the last time we congregated was in the dusty desert of Arizona as described here), while tomorrow, daughters return home for a visit, and the loft takes in some basic indispensable objects-- all this as I wipe more brick dust from freshly painted banisters and shelves. Can’t live in the place without a table and a bed, can you?

I am focusing on loft details now. These are mostly noticable when you freshly inhabit a place. After a few months I wont even be aware of the interweaving of pipes and shafts. You take everything that is familiar and unchanging for granted. But today they make me pause and look up. I like what I see.

I found a companion peeking 'round the banister. Must be one of the birds I wrote of in the previous post.

...you've got one hour, it's time you told your story...

Sometimes you get only an hour, sometimes a year, sometimes more. And when that space opens up for you, so often you go from telling your story, to living an even better one.

To listeners of people's stories, to those who turn you away from events you should ignore and nudge you toward good things: quaint noises of singing birds that totally lull and distract you -- this one's for you.

Apartment notes

The day is a blurr. I know I spent part of the morning tidying the loft, making it ready for an official move-in.

It is not clear why I need to “tidy an apartment” that is brand new (though within a brand old structure). I do know that the giant brick wall let go of brick dust and so going over window frames seemed crucial to my future happiness.

I have never in my life moved to a brand new interior before.

And, it has been more than 30 years since I moved entirely by myself. It allows for a deliberateness and an indulgance too. I carry things slowly, pensively, thinking about what it is that I am bringing in to this new space. No clutter permitted.

A blurr of wiping, installing phones and other mechanical devices, wandering around the place, liking its emptiness.

In that 3-story structure there is an elevator and I was so grateful that the extent of my carrying things was from truck to elevator to door. Shoes off, keep the place neat. I’ll be asking people to take their own garbage out, I just know it. You, sir! You have been drinking diet soda! Take that bottle out of here! It is polluting the garbage can!

People on the top floor of the building (this includes me) have been noticing an occasional black flake on their floors. I thought it looked like flecks of old tar. So long as it is inorganic, you know, like not a corpse of a little bug or something, I hardly care. I live under old beams and high wooden ceilings. You would think old ceilings release a tantalizing clue about their past every now and then.

All surfaces cleaned. Should I attack my office now? No, for God’s sake, let me just lay off of all the cleaning! Between getting the house ready for showings and getting the new place ready for habitation, I feel like I should not lie, that I should boldly state “sanitizing and polishing” as my main extracurricular activity.

Upstairs, Downstairs

I am an apartment dweller again. [Sort of. On paper anyway]

Oh lofty place, you are awesome! And you offer another approach to life.

I met a neighbor as I dragged in some boxes today (Tonya: first thing in – the sound system, just to irk you!). Alice (I’m all about pseudonyms), a loft-dweller herself, was on her way out and we went back to her unit to chat. A handful have been living here since the grand opening on August 1st. Her scoop:

Here’s the lowdown: we live in a stratified society and nowhere is it more evident than in this building. Upper level: mostly UW profs, moving to Madison from California, New York, Connecticut. Middle floor: professional grad students. Lower level: struggling grad students.

back entrance to three levels of warehouse living

We get together and we laugh a lot. They’re tracking my progress with a guy from match.com. It’s like a cheering squad. We toured each other’s units and bitched about how others have things that our own units lack. We compared shower curtains. We all really got into the loft idea. We got appliances to match the steel pipes. We want to feel urban.

The younger types [grad students] are straight out of dorms, you can tell. Like, one of them went around last night knocking on our doors. She was going to watch movies and wanted company. So sweet!

Come to a party this coming Tuesday. It’s for the lofters. It’s my birthday.

The place is a mix of construction workers and residents. Things aren’t quite done yet, but no one minds. There is a freshness to the building that goes beyond new construction. I remember when I lived in the suburbs (oh! I used the past tense!), people said that it takes a certain type to move to a cul-de-sac. My apartment wisdom is that it takes a certain type to pick a warehouse loft to live in.


still constructing (does the beard get in the way sometimes?)

I was glad I read up on urban spaces. I feel this loft will require a mindset in addition to pieces of furniture strategically placed in the cavernous spaces.

Mr.B, let me thank you for a summer of good health

One bonus of being a total advocate of healthy living is that annual check-ups provide opportunities to chat in a friendly fashion with your physician about their kids and hobbies. And I like my physician tons, so the annual check-in is like a yearly reunion. I always want to say we should have coffee sometime. Really, I just love my doc.

Yesterday, however, she really pushed me and tried hard to figure out if there maybe could be some small thing that she could note on my chart. I think she feels that it reflects poorly on her detection skills to put “perfect health,” especially since my first several dozen years of life were full of medical drama. How could it be that it all went away?

So she prodded me for more details.

Have you suffered a loss of appetite in the last year?
Nope – love to eat. [Doctors only pretend they want you to stay slim; once you’re at some lower weight level, they needle you about it all the time. The message is always clear: if you’re a normal human being, you should be getting fat! What the hell is wrong with you? You’re against candy bars and the sedentary life style? What kind of a freak are you anyway?]

Do you get tired during the day?
Nope.

Are you at all depressed? Would you like to see a counselor or are you just relying on friends with life’s issues?
Friends. Besides, I’m hearty Polish peasant stock. We don’t acknowledge depressive states. We go out and till the fields when the going gets tough.

Ah! It says on your chart that you had a bike accident in June. Any aftermath?
Well, the sprain in the thumb never totally healed because I use the hand so much…
Let me take a look…Still swollen! You need hand therapy! I have just the referral for you. Next week I want you to go to the Hand Clinic at UW Hospitals.

The Hand Clinic? There is a Hand Clinic? I have a slightly swollen thumb joint and I have to go to the Hand Clinic for therapy? People have psychiatrists, neurologists, cardiologist and I have a hand doctor? How awkward is that?

I detected a smug little look of satisfaction in my her eye as she scribbled out the referral.

Lofty goals

Tomorrow I am handed the keys to this:




[The suburban house where I am currently living is not quite sold yet, but one needs to secure new shelter in this town fast if one is fussy about one’s spaces.]

To me, a loft is the epitome of urban living and I am aiming to put urban-ness into the interior of the apartment. On my way to a seminar today, I stopped at the bookstore to leaf through magazines on urban spaces (which are, BTW, outnumbered 10 to 1 by magazines urging you to go country or at least cottagey), just so I wouldn’t make some major errors in the way I created lofty urban-ness. I like the idea of pipes and bricks and beams running every which way in the loft and I want to do right by them.



So engrossing was this project that I never noticed the time and I missed the seminar completely. Sorry, seminar.

It has been a while since I have moved (and officially I will not change residences until September 1st). Decades ago I would make arrangements weeks in advance of a move to get phone service started. Today I am worrying that access to the Internet will be uninterrupted for me. Phones? I don’t even know what people do about getting a number in the new place. Everyone I ask tells me they no longer use “land” service. Land service. How quaint. I need land service! What if my Internet breaks down and I need dial-up?!

And ordering things on line. Does anyone even go to stores these days? Mr. B and I are chasing around town thinking we are one up on everyone. We’re doing it right. We go, I buy, we leave. That’s what’s supposed to happen, correct? No! all I see is store-people bringing up screens on computers, informing me that the floor samples are just fluff and decoration, the real stuff being on line. And no, nothing can be carted home. So, can I have it delivered by this week-end? I ask this with my very best smile, the one reserved for judges and important people.

Stunned silence. I mean, the clerks can't recover from the incredulity and shock of the request. We regret to inform you that it all comes from small islands in the middle of the Pacific and the next boat is expected to dock and pick up the stuff on November 28th. If the weather holds. You can expect delivery in 36 weeks. Next time I'll stay home. At least there are blogs to read in moments of great frustration with the world.

Lofts have great heights, and a wonderful expansiveness. I’m hoping to feel the waves of euphoria and bliss from all sides and corners, sweeping over me soon, very soon. I am hopin'! Along with Internet service. It has been confirmed: I cannot live without NinaNet.

jeffery, jlp, oscar, earthgirl, andrew, kerry, bert and dear dear old brando* and all you food/travel lovin’ readers, this one’s for you!

* brando, I am so sucking up! You have a book contract – get me one!

So where am I and what am I doing?

chocolate-covered gingerbread hearts

No kidding: I am right here in Madison. There is a Polish deli in this town, in a yuppified strip mall. It is so wrong for so many reasons but there you have it. Each time I enter (all of two times thus far), it is completely empty. I should buy something, I should! But the selections are too…. Polish.

yum! sour cucumber puree!

they (I cannot align myself with my homeland here) cannot live without this stuff

Alex owns the place and he was there today when I poked in. I want to refer all lonely people in Madison to his store immediately. The man is a talker! So Polish it hurts. It is one long sentence, sort of like this one which you cannot interrupt because it is joined together to form a whole and if you jump in and say something like I really must get going then you appear totally rude and like you’re really not listening to any of it and so what’s the point…

I just want to note that Polish people really are rotten spellers (in foreign to them languages) because we have a basically phonetic approach to words. A spelling bee would be a joke! How do you spell szczypiorek? What, you’re kidding, right? There is only one possible way: szczypiorek (meaning: chives). Try not to make fun, therefore, when you see signs in the store that seem somehow off. We are not trained to find fault with something like this:

Alex, the highlander (the moustache says it all). He hasn’t been back to Poland for a while, but on the counter he keeps a picture of his old highland home. Next to it is a cheap replica of the Statue of Liberty. Behind it? A portrait of the pope. No, not the new one. The real pope. All we need is a fake-autographed photo of George W. Bush and I'd feel like I entered a place straight out of the Chicago Polish community.

"When I lived in New Jersey, I wanted to get a degree at Princeton, but it's all about money here. I settled for menial work. It's okay, it's okay. It's the American way."

Virgin voyage

Or – are the proper terms maiden voyage and virgin territory?

Last night I was happily blabbing about something or other and a person in the same room said .. Nina, do you know you just said someone was “painstakingly shy?"*

I do that sometime. Wrong words, wrong meanings. Most people, when they learn a language through immersion (as I did by moving to the States at age 7), adultify it as they work their way through the school system.

Not me. I went back to good old Polska for high school and a chunk of college and so I never shed that elementary school pidgeon-toed (what the hell is that?) language, perverted at the playground and never subsequently corrected by exasperated teachers who would know better.

Ocean is written by a person who, at times, is still capable of talking “tenement for rent, inquire within, when I jump out, you jump in” talk.

A commenter notes that it does create a very distinct voice for blogging here. It’s an interesting point. I do think that I plunge ahead without heed and often without much awareness of the quaintness of my choices – words, topics, all of it. It must generate a (sympathetic) smile. As “painstakingly shy” did for the group I was with.

I read all your comments to yesterday's post very very carefully and I cannot thank you enough. No, really, they blew me away. So generous! That’s what I see – your utter generosity. And that is what shook me out of my alternately tearful and morose state of being, it’s what made me come back so quickly.

What’s with the virginity in the blog title? Ah. You could say that this is the virgin post of a new, refreshed Ocean. But actually I titled it thus because it is the first time that I am blogging from a new computer. Isn’t it wonderful when events sort of merge and coalesce and it appears that the chaos of yesterday can resolve itself into a quiet ride the next day?

[And virginity has another moment in this post: I have to admit that my last year in an American school was in 7th grade, where we graduated from singing about rental properties to belting out “...I don't want no fire truck, I want one that I can…” The awful truth is that I thought this was hilariously funny.]

* this kind friend followed up today with an email, noting: there are 43 google entries for "painstakingly shy" (in quotes) as opposed to 50,000 for "painfully shy".

Dear Ocean readers,

Mr. B and I went for a spin today. More – I rode with him very very far, because when I want to make decisions, I cannot do it sitting still.

I am stepping back from what it is that I do here, on Ocean. Time to think more, write less.

Why? Because it has become apparent that you can take the water out of a real ocean sooner than I can take the emotion out of this Ocean. Even though this blog says really very little about the events and people that fill my days with boundless excitement and sometimes exasperation, it does reveal my moods. If I am not chipper, Ocean gets that sour taste to it, so that inevitably I get emails from people who wonder if I perhaps have come to need something stronger than martinis to pull me through the hour. (Someone did ask me that in an email – if there was perhaps a drink more potent and still legal that I could concoct for myself on a regular basis.)

I pick episodes, at times almost randomly, at times very deliberately and I write about them. They are from my day, and I spin them in the way that feels right. But now, I am afraid that I have become too wedded to being so true to a mood that Ocean has become too …well, honest and personal. (But not journalistic! Ever! There is a difference!) I hear the words articulated by someone just a few days back: "you write such a personal blog!" Do I? That would seem somehow wrong.

There are the other things, too: I have never been comfortable with the one-sidedness of the conversation. It gives me too much freedom to say things without worrying about reactions. And it gives you too many opportunities to lean on the blog to keep abreast of my life. I do not like that.

So here are my initial decisions:

First of all, I am immediately enabling the Comments function. The one-sidedness has got to stop. And, I will limit somewhat my writing for the rest of this month. I will resume regular blogging if I feel the problems identified by me can be addressed. I welcome your input here. You know what my limited talents are and what I can and cannot do. I don’t want to try to please everyone, I’m just looking for ideas and evaluating what has and what hasn’t worked before.

Feel free to write in and let me know what you think is worth keeping, if anything. Oh, and also feel free to react to the comments of others, but do not feel pressured to do so. It really is okay if I receive no comments and readers move on to other blogs. I can always go write a book or something.

One more thing: I will permit Anonymous comments only because it is hard to otherwise post comments if you are not a blogger. But I will basically not pay attention to anything written by someone who doesn’t at least sign with her or his first name (or initials) so that I know who you are.

And I will be ruthless in banishing comments that are in any way hurtful or mocking of others (or of me!) – even if only intended as a joke. If the last thing I do on this blog is give my support to highetened standards of blog discourse, I will be satisfied.

I’ll start with my own comment about Ocean: I think Ocean works best when it takes a trivial, very very trivial episode and makes a story out of it, no? So, your turn. Click on "comments" and let me know what you're into here in the murky waters of Ocean. Comments follow the photo of the turtle whom I came across during my bike ride. Note the readiness to jump (slowly) into the pond's own murky waters. I am aiming to emulate her (his?) pace in life.

…living up to expectations…

If someone were to ask me what bugs me most about being fifty-two I would say, without hesitation, that it is the way in which you are pigeon-holed by younger people. Even well-meaning younger people. There is hardly a single younger friend that I have (and I would say that purely for idiosyncratic reasons, most of my friends are currently younger than I am) who hasn’t at one point or other said something or done something that shows how much they keep my age very prominent in their attitude toward me. I don’t mind. Usually. Sometimes though, I mind intensely.

I’ll give you a trivial example.

A friend said this a few days back: I ought to hang out with younger people more. Younger people are into music. Older people are not. (I am eleven years older than her.)

My immediate reaction was to actually want to land a punch at the side of her jaw and watch the teeth fall to the floor. But I love her dearly and so instead, I embraced my inner calm and made some lame comment about music this and that.

Music. When I moved from Poland to the States the first time around at the age of 7, I was sent to summer camp for two months. Even before falling in love with junk food and television, I took to the guitar that summer. I played in a self-taught sort of way all the way through high school (back in Poland for that). My boyfriend taught me interesting plunking techniques and I spent pretty much every evening of my adolescence fiddling with my guitar.

When I turned 16 (still in Poland) I collected my first paycheck for cleaning up refuse in the city parks of Warsaw. With that first paycheck I bought a violin and then paid for a year’s worth of violin lessons from a university student whose name I grabbed from the campus bulletin board (I was then a student too, but in Poland universities were free and students lived at home so you could use earnings to indulge your music cravings.)

Did all this die in middle age? No. One could well trace my midlife rebellion right back to music, in fact.

It’s just that, well, it’s just that when you are plunging ahead with your life, you look squarely at your options and, in years where you are strong, you set your priorities straight and you move forward. That movement included, for me, many years of scant contact with music.

Age? It has nothing to do with it! You either are a person who loves music, in all its shapes and sizes, or you are indifferent to it. You don’t outgrow it though. Ever.

Tonight, I spent some hours hanging around guitarists. They didn’t play nearly enough to keep me happy. But the grilled burgers made up for it.

Nocturnal guest

It is late, I am on the phone, the doorbell rings. I light up – he’s there! It's funny how such a visit, one that you weren't really sure would happen, can light up your entire day.

“I didn’t think you’d make it!” I tell him. “Oh, I am so happy to see you!”
He comes in, sits down at the kitchen table, we talk. I show him my new computer, he admires it, tries out a few keys. “Nice…” he comments.

He paces around the house and says eventually –“Do you mind if we go outside?” It’s a dark night. He’s not familiar with my yard. I feel conspiratorial as I get the flashlight. The beam isn’t strong. I remember that the last time I checked the batteries of this light was when my daughter needed it for camp some half dozen years ago.

“It’s buggy,” he tells me. Inside again, I look at his mosquito bite, right there, just above the fingers of his hand. Good sturdy fingers – should play the piano, I think to myself, even though I know the keys he touches are mostly those of a computer keyboard.

It’s nearly 11 now. “I really have to call it a day” he says. “Tomorrow, I'm going to try to arrange it so that I can come back to morrow morning, okay? If not, then we'll have to plan on early in the week.” I smile. “Of course! I am so grateful to you!”

He leaves quickly, as if it only now strikes him that he has stayed too long.

Now, in the morning, I am waiting for the doorbell to ring again. I am hopeful.

UPDATE: Phew! He just left. Worked up a sweat today, that's for sure! He's younger than I am used to seeing here -- all enthusiastic about going to grad school to become a physical therapist. He likes being around people, he tells me. I can see that!

[this post is dedicated to him, the Internet repair person from Charter Communications.]

Bloggerrantics, part 5

I did take a handful of photos before wallowing (see post below) set in good and hard. Here we go, outside Cafe Zoma, then inside the Cafe, waiting (with my flawed mechanicals) for the threesome to hike over and join up for a cool drink:

gold on blue: a swallow and a sparrow?


gold on gold: Jeremy shows up for the cool drink


gold and blue: Ocean author, reflecting

Bloggerantics, part 4

I am being tested today for patience and anti-wallowing. The most obvious challenge comes from the world of computers. The less obvious ... oh why even go there when there is the obvious to talk about!

Two computers: one old, one new. Neither are working well. That is not a good turn of events when you are to spend a day with bloggers blogging.

At home, the Internet is down (I am on dial-up again) and time's a wastin.'

Because I spent hours on these problems, while bloggers roamed the Willie Street neighborhood taking pictures for their blogs, I sat at various places and said to myself "I am a patient and anti-wallowing person, I am a patient and anti-wallowing person..." pretty much over and over again.

The patient part at least worked and I screamed at no one.

I do wish my grandma, the one with the ample bosom and endless cuddling invitations was alive and by my side right now.

Bloggerrantics, part 3

Why are you so quiet?? -- I am asked.

I don't know, I think I remind myself today a little of him:


Outside Mo Fool's

Bloggerrantics, part 2

Blogging fools at Mo Fools?

Bloggerrantics, part 1

He was a portrait taker! How could you not understand my post title?! Blogger query of the morning.

A day of blogging around town: Oscar’s choice for a birthday celebration. Stay tuned – all we’re doing this day is … that.

Fretting

Tonya writes this on her blog:

This is not a meme. But, you are free to join in the fun and list some stupid things that you worry about on your own blog. I'll list 10, but my list is actually much, much longer. Worrying is a way of life for me.

I read her list. Interesting. Check it out. It seems pretty tame to me.

It took me no time at all to post a comment. I wrote:

This is the truth: I worry that one day I will say "what's the point" and I will eat bagloads of M&Ms and not wash my hair ever again and wear flip-flops to the grocery store in the middle of the winter.

Doesn't anyone else worry about that?

Tea and sympathy

When I worked for years and years at a non-profit, we had these words for new staffers: don’t treat this as a place where we all come together and drink herbal tea and talk about our relationship problems. This is a place of work! Write grants, keep regular hours, and don’t spend time on the phone with your sweetie.

It had to be said. Private sector jobs can be terrifying. Non-profit organizations pay less and it is hard to get some employees to take their work seriously. The metaphor of tea-sipping on the job stuck in my head and I always combined herbal tea drinking with the type of person who would also keep a journal and talk about their inner feeling on all occasions, including at work. Ugh.

I like herbal tea and I'm okay with feeling-talk, but the combination left me ...cold.

When I started blogging I hadn’t, I don’t think, a "blogger voice" – to use writers’ fave little characterization (“you’re just developing your voice” one travel editor once told me when I gave her a travel story to look over). But I absolutely positively knew one thing. Ocean was not going to be a journal-type blog. You know, of the type: and I did this and this and I feel that and that. NO!

I do not take journal writing seriously – I kept journals when I was a kid and stopped (for the most part) as an adult. It seemed even more self-indulgent than blogging, if you can imagine (okay, kill me all you journal writers! I just do not like any of the journals I ever wrote. In fact, five years ago, I took a big trash bag, packed some twenty journals that I had written as a young adult into it and threw the whole heap away in the trash container next to Bagels Forever. I had almost died a couple of years earlier and one nagging thought I had then was that if I did die, someone inevitably would read the garbage I wrote and think I was demented.)

So today I am sitting at a blogger’s kitchen table and sipping herbal tea brought over by another blogger and they tell me: Ocean is awfully much like a journal…

NO! IT IS NOT!

So there.

ang, tonya, tea

Bridges

I walk my little one (actually she is twentyyears old) this evening via cell phone through remote parts of DC as she heads home late, in the dark. This is a modern way of caring for your older children.

I tell her that I have been listening to a Tonya mix a lot. She asks what’s on it. I read the titles. She says about one (Cannonball) – oh! did I know that this has been a favorite of mine? No, really? Yeah.

I got a date with the night, burnin down my finger, Gonna catch the kids dry, gonna walk on water

What I actually have had is a permanent date with the sponge and scouring pad as each day I am either cleaning the house for a showing or doing endless stacks of pots, bowls and cooking utensils (in the case of yesterday: both).

Cleaning a kitchen after a cooking binge is like grading exams after a semester of teaching – an unfair punishment for an otherwise challenging and stimulating set of tasks. There is no shortcut, you just have to do it. If you’re lucky, you’ll have company during the tedium of it all. Most often you will only have your thoughts.

And so what are they, those thoughts that accumulated with the four-hour stack of pots this morning? A blogger whom I had the great pleasure of meeting last night had recently asked how much of oneself does a person need to put out there [on one’s blog]? My personal answer is: perhaps not nearly as much as would appear at first glance.

Today, all you get is the facts:

After commenting on Jeremy’s blog that we keep too much useless stuff and we should all get rid of unnecessary “things,” I noticed that I had just last week purged old useless spices and therefore no longer had the black sesame seeds I needed to coat the chicken bits rolled over scallion, to be dipped in spicy pepper sauce at the grad student going away party (at JF's RV) for Katy and Jeremy.

The photos posted yesterday are from a rushed trip to Penzey’s Spices for a replacement jar of seeds.

I had balked initially when it was suggested that I throw some snackies together for this event. I love these guys tons, but I am not very good at throwing things together for any party, especially one that is not my own. If you want to point a finger at me and say “There runs Fusses With Food,” go ahead and do so.

In the end though, I could not resist, especially since blogging Ang agreed to stand by my side at my kitchen counter and take orders for a significant chunk of the day. Jesus, how often do you get that kind of assistance!

Facts, facts, stick to the facts:

There was a lot of vodka at the RV. It was good to see all that vodka and gin lined up on the kitchen counter. It was like an army battalion, scary, really, reminding me at the outset that it was poised to fire and kill if I drank too much too fast, especially since I hadn’t eaten (purely for reasons of being completely busy the entire day and completely out of it the day before).

So I drank with restraint. Probably more restraint than I have ever had at a party of this type. Others were far less restrained and still others did not drink at all. An interesting mix.

We played a game of associating weird facts with either Katy or Jeremy (you had to pick which if any had had a certain experience) and I walked away with a pair of striped socks for knowing, among other things, that neither Jeremy nor Katy had ever eaten an entire Thanksgiving meal naked. Someone else in the room apparently did eat it in such fashion, but if you walk with someone at dawn (Katy) and travel with another to Poland (Jeremy) you get to know a ton about each of them, including that they are not the type to leave their clothes behind when invited to share in the yams and pumpkin pies.

I can only speak for myself and so I will only repeat the toast I made in the round of saying something nice about either of the two celebrated persons. So: to their leaning in their work away from sociology – something that I myself had done twenty five years ago and now, in a different context, am doing yet again. Here’s to those leaning away, may they (me too!) find their true leanings truly rewarding.

And, speaking of rewarding, perhaps the most rewarding for me aspect of the evening (and there were many aspects of all shapes and hues) was meeting some people, blogging people, sure, but not only: all sorts of people, whom I’d never met but had always wanted to. The talk on the bench -- priceless.

great friends

lost in prayer

the key to success

tough act

post prelim bliss

Fruity Pebbles??

something's cooking

Ocean takes a pause today because of this:



and this:



tomorrow, I'll explain tomorrow

breathing lessons

Twenty-four years ago today, I was taught to breathe for the first time. When my oldest daughter was born. The entire trick in childbirth, I was told, was in breathing. You do it right and the baby flies out and you go home laughing. You do it wrong and you lose your sanity. It’s all in the breathing.

I read Tyler’s Breathing Lessons more than fifteen years ago. Remember the story? Ira and Maggie, married for twenty-eight years get in the car and head for a funeral. (She’s so chipper, that Tyler is!) Hey, I’ve been married for twenty-eight years!

I like Tyler enough, but never quite in the way others do. Her heroines and heros are either numbed into some kind of pathological acceptance of their bum deal in life, or they are crestfallen from day one and they spiral down, as Maggie did, toward some great abyss of hopelessness before turning around and plodding ahead anyway. So that toward the very end of the book Tyler writes: Maggie had a sudden view of her life as circular. It forever repeated itself, and it was entirely lacking in hope. Thanks, Tyler! Such a nifty little idea to put down on page 315.

When my younger daughter auditioned for the various levels of the symphony orchestra, she tended to concentrate so intensely on her violin playing that inevitably she would be told, just before heading out to play before a judge: don’t forget to breathe. Because breathing isn’t a given. I guess we can forget to do it. I wonder what happens if you forget. Do you get nudged by the person next to you? Hey! You haven’t been raking in your free share of oxygen lately! Catch a breath already!

Tonight I realized that the red pepper I bought earlier in the day had a bruise. A significant bruise. I need an unbruised pepper. I also need more blueberries. So back I went on Mr. B, with my unsatisfactory red pepper, peddling to Whole Foods, somewhat in a hurry because I have a lot to do and in addition I have an early morning showing of the house to prepare for. Yet again. On the return trip I took the shortest route – up Old Sauk hill. With the 11% grade. Breathing will get you through! I told myself. But actually, after a summer of biking, I would say that my leg muscles rather than breathing per se allowed me to get to the top without getting off in shame and humiliation halfway up.

Just as in her violin auditions it was my little one’s talent and hard work that got her to the top. I truly think the breathing was incidental to her success.

So let's say you want to leave town, but you can’t, because unlike Maggie and Ira, you have no funeral to go to and so like it or not, you need to plod along from page one. What about the old childbirth breathing trick? Concentrate on breathing in and out, I mean really concentrate and you'll fly through the day laughing so hard that the tears will make your eyes puffy. Breathe in, breathe out.

I think breathing lessons are way overrated.

In the still of the night

If you go and go and go and then get to a forest at night and stop and look around, you may see this:



And then you understand that what you do on a daily basis is pretty insignificant. That's if you're lucky. In the alternative, one could regard it as, well, almost worthless.

I interrupt Ocean’s typically bland and/or morose posting to deliver the second* important announcement this year: my little S turns twenty-four today

You have now lived one fourth of your life away from home. Not fair – you are not even half my age!

I know you remember this:

enthusiastic

And this:
Tell a story, spin it from your own fantastic thoughts, spin it for your little sister, spin it for me!
"S******* everywhere!"

I love you more than any love told in any storyform, more than Charlotte loved Wilbur, more than any character in the long line of Chestnuts ever loved anyone.

Happy birthday, little S.

* first important announcement told here.

This post is about bras. Too racy or undignified for you? Move on.

A house showing is a big deal. The outcome can set the course for your entire month, year, nay – future. It is imperative that you do all within your power to make the place presentable. Good tips include such things as: eliminate clutter, put out flowers, turn on lights and vacuum carpets. If sellers had done any of these when we were on the market, we would have snatched many a house in moments of great indecision. We’re all shallow beings, easily taken in by fluff.

Sigh, our buying was so long ago…

Wait, return to the topic at hand: bras.

I cut it close with the house cleaning and organizing today (in anticipation of the open showing of the place by the realtor). A couple of hours before the set time I decided that, as a final touch, I’d change all the sheets on all the beds. To give it a crisper look and feel. In case what – you may ask. I mean, only bears try out beds. But still, omit no detail! – was my motto.

And I ran a load of laundry with the sheets, in case someone looked inside the laundry chute. It’s gross seeing a strangers’ soiled stuff lying in a crumpled mass. Omit no detail.

Having over the years shrunk more items of clothing than I would like to admit through the act of machine drying, I tend to hang certain delicate items out on a line in the street-facing, large and airy laundry room.

A sheets load takes certain delicate items that absolutely should not be shrunk and so I threw those in. And then hung them out to dry. A nice parade of dangling straps and cups. Mental note: take them down on way out. Because it’s just so unseemly. Embarrassing, I think, to reveal to prospective buyers what size you wear. They may infer something from it. Too big, too small – who knows, it may reflect somehow on the house. Woman with Hooters’-sized knockers lives here (or, the opposite -- I’m not sayin’).

Oh but you know where this is heading: I forgot to take them down. I dashed out at 1:01 and I forgot.

Crap.

the reason why I am not over-the-edge stressed as weighed against the 100 suggested reasons as to why my house remains, as yet, unsold

First, a sampling of the proffered by others and imagined by me forces that are, almost a month after its entry on the market, keeping this spectacular house… still on the market:

1. There are way too many people out there wanting to shake up their lives and move on and out (thereby glutting the market with “for sale” signs);
2. It’s the dark wood exterior. People like light wood these days;
3. Yes, perennials are nice, but suburban types like marigolds and geraniums and not phlox and coreopsis and campanula, all growing in a crazily mixed up way;
4. Summer is the slow season because people celebrate the Fourth of July for a long long time;
5. It’s like wanting to and not wanting to get pregnant: you’re more likely to have it happen if you do not really want it to happen;
6. It’s Bush’s fault;
7. It’s the economy, stupid;
8. It’s the end of life as we knew it;
9. It’s the weather;
10. It’s weird.

So why am I calm?
No mystery here. I have stopped making lists of things to do. Instead, I am compiling a huge list of things NOT to do, on the theory offered elsewhere on the local blogosphere that one is more likely to not do things than to do things. My list of things that I will not do includes, so far, the following:

1. I will avoid turning on the AC unless there is someone else, other than me, in the house;
2. I will avoid using the aging car (this is helped tremendously by the fact that it now takes quite the number of minutes to get it started and typically only a loud and abusive “damn you!” will shake it into power);
3. I will avoid getting angry at anyone for any reason (this one is the easiest by far, as no one is especially making me angry these days; or maybe it is because I have fallen into a benign indifference to pretty much everything, knowing that once I crack the emotive door, I will be flooded with such violent reactions to even the smallest of annoyances that I will not be able to stop pounding and expounding until forced to do so by people from the local mental health facility);
4. I will not succumb to stress. There you have it – just like that. No more stress. Zip it out, turn it off, flick a finger at it – be gone, you devil!

So there.