Hard Day

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Today was kind of hard.

One of the kids left the chicken house open.  It opens at the top.  The poor kid, she didn’t mean to leave it open and she didn’t know that chickens can fly a little, or that they could climb up the perches to the top and jump out.  And I’m sure she really didn’t know that an ordinary house dog like one of ours would kill a loose chicken if given the chance.  She was devastated and it was just an accident.  One chicken gone and another a little stressed out but otherwise unharmed.

I had to be an adult about all of this and it sucks to be an adult.  Adults have to gather up the remains of the chicken and later explain why we could not bury it in the back yard where the dog would dig it up, even if we buried it very deep in the ground.  I hate being an adult.

Later in the evening I found out about a friend who chose to bring his life to an end on his own terms, facing as he was a terminal diagnosis and treatment that was not working.  I don’t question his decision nor his right to do as he did.  I am just sad that it ended this way, sad for him to have to choose to go alone, sad for us left behind him.  He was not a close friend but always a good one, an unforgettable man, and the world is poorer without him in it.

Hug your loved ones and be good to one another.  Nothing else really matters.

 

And so it begins!

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So a couple of years ago we attended a “mini maker faire” at the local museum of science and industry, and I stumbled upon a presentation by a droid builder’s club.

I was so hooked, but still working on my master’s degree and not able to commit any time or allow distractions.

Tomorrow is commencement, and my diploma arrived a few days ago.

Last night I signed up for an account at the astromech builder’s site.  And this morning they approved me.

Hey you people in my life who know how to make stuff:  I’m totally going to be calling on you to help me, show me, teach me.  Building a droid is a learning experience, and I aim to learn.  Game on!

r2

One hundred percent 11

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So today my kid got out of school early for early dismissal, because kids nowadays get out of school early all the damn time.  I don’t remember this half-day nonsense.  By God, in my day we went to school full days and we liked it.  And when we had a day off it was an entire day and no mistake.

Anyway, hilarity ensues:

Delia: Mama, can I paint the end tables? (small unfinished wooden tables we got at Ikea years ago and are covered in marking pen etc because children are filthy little savages)
Me: (gathering supplies and opening paint can) Okay, but put down plastic and change your clothes.
Delia: Okay! (looks totally responsible and stuff)
Minutes later Delia is seen moving table dangerously close to house to get it out of the rain, which is at least purposeful, but then as if mesmerized places palms flat down on wet paint and smears it around for no reason.
Me: DEAR GOD WHAT ARE YOU DOING
Delia: (looks guilty)
Me: Okay, go wash your hands.  Why did you do that?
Delia: (washes hands; no answer)
Me: (places half-painted wooden end table with huge smeary palm prints on freshly-painted top in garage) Okay, you can finish painting in there.  But try not to get paint on everything and please don’t do that again or you will get paint everywhere and I will not let you paint EVER AGAIN.
Delia: (subdued) Okay.
She’s so tall and easy-going and good-natured that I forget that she is still an 11-year-old kid, and to an 11-year-old kid, slippery fresh paint is SO AWESOME to smear your hands around in.  Especially to this one who has loved mud puddles, pumpkin guts, creepy crawly stuff, and bugs pretty much since birth.

Disagree is not the same as disapprove

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So today I was mulling something over that was kind of bugging me.  I’d even had a dream about it the other night.  I’d chased someone around in the dream angrily demanding answers.

There I was, driving along perseverating on this thing that was bugging me and then this number popped into my head:  FORTY-EIGHT.

I am FORTY-EIGHT years old.

Aren’t I a little too old, AT FORTY-EIGHT, to let something bug me like this?  Because this thing is not something with an easy answer and angrily demanding one won’t get me anywhere, in dreams or in reality.

Chances are good that I’m misinterpreting part of the situation.  Chances are also good  that even if I’m not, nothing will really change the outcome.  It is what it is, and I’m not going to change it by confronting anybody.

It turns out that you’re never going to be anybody but who you are, and if somebody doesn’t like who you are they can just move along.  Sometimes you just have to make peace with that and get on with your life.  I’m not saying it won’t still hurt.  I’m just saying that it’s not worth my time anymore.

So here’s an open message to anybody who reads it: If I’m not good enough, or my family isn’t good enough, or my house isn’t good enough, or the way I live my life isn’t good enough, or virtually anything that is about me isn’t good enough for YOU, that is of no concern to ME at all.  I’m not living my life for you and you don’t get a say in how I live or whether I’m happy.

If you’re wondering if this is about you, just ask yourself: do you disapprove of me in any major way?  If so, do you also love me despite whatever it is that you disapprove of?  Do you express your disapproval to me in some way, whether out loud or silently?  (Note: disagree is not the same as disapprove)  Do you make decisions about spending time with me based on your love, or is it more based on your disapproval?

If the disapproval outweighs the love, then yes, maybe this is about you.

I spend a lot of time in my work with people who are so broken and sick that they have no one.  If you have a choice, your choice should be to love everybody who can stand you, because you don’t know when that might get taken away from you.  If I love you, I love you despite anything about you that I may not agree with. That is my superpower.

If your disapproval outweighs your love, move it along.  There is no room for you here.

LiverPants

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So tonight The Lovely Rhonda and I attended a stage production beloved the world over which, for reasons of wishing to avoid unnecessary stern correspondence from copyright infringement attorneys, I’ll refer to here as “Liverpants.”

Once, long ago when we were young and I was far more foolish than I am now, I confessed (possibly in a drunken whisper, although I can neither explain, confirm, or deny this) that should a polished stage production featuring sprightly Caucasians jigging around in short costumes to vaguely Celtic music ever come to town, I could possibly be interested in attending.  Thus technically only one of us was really attending voluntarily, although TLR pointed out that she does these things for me because she loves me and wants to be happy.

Should the opportunity present itself again, however, she will be staying home on account of that one time in the first half of the show where she rested her head on my shoulder briefly and whispered, “I am dying inside.”

Featuring as it did a great deal of ominous narration about the sun and the moon and the various things the sun and the moon meant to the hapless primitive villagers of the unnamed lands alluded to therein, I was prepared for a lot of woo-woo New Age crap, and to be sure there was a bit of it, but pretty soon we were all settling in for what we all came for: white people tap dancing in the most repressed way possible, i.e. without moving anything above and including the pelvis.  This was punctuated by musical numbers occasionally featuring, unfortunately, a soprano saxophone which thanks to a certain curly haired guy popular in the mid-1980’s is pretty much the kiss of easy listening death to the American audience.  Nonetheless we all soldiered on.

It went as one might expect, with nicely syncopated lines of fit young dancers tippity-tapping their way across the stage so effortlessly that I wanted to take off one of my orthopedic shoes and lob it at them in old-lady irritation.  At one point they brought out a couple of black guys and had a somewhat comedic dance-off between them and a trio of Irish guys.

I could picture the auditions: “Can ye merely throw your ankle above your head without bending anything, and does this velvet bodice fit ye?”

I did get scolded briefly by a Nice but Firm Usher Lady who informed me that Photography Is Strictly Forbidden despite the fact that I have taken probably a hundred photos in this very auditorium.  The offending photo, displayed here for your viewing pleasure, was of a friend who happened to be seated directly below us in the box seats.  Chantelle at the show

It was a good show despite the soprano sax and the mean lady who scolded me, and TLR dying inside, and the only other things I have to say are that I saw a guy in the lobby wearing flip-flops even though it’s in the 30’s tonight, plus also we park near the stage entrance so we often mill through the performers as they leave the building so we saw a lot of the dancers and dear God are they thin.  I supposed if you’re going to regularly throw your leg over your own shoulder you’d better be.  We wanted to make conversation: “Is it true you can lick the back of your own knee?  Asking for a friend.”

Fractal owl wars

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So my boss and I have an amusing pastime which is to torment one another over owls.

I like owls.  I have kind of a thing for owls.  It’s a thing.  Don’t judge me.

A while ago we bought a little print of an owl at a street fair and I took it to work to hang on my office wall.  My boss was not a fan.  “It looks mean!” she said.  I had it sitting on my desk and she’d stand there talking to me and my office mate and then oh so casually she’d reach over and turn it around so its back was to us.

Eventually I put it up on the wall, over where she couldn’t easily reach it, but before I did I made a single color copy and a black and white copy.  I used the primitive Office version of Paint to cut, paste and resize the b&w owl image to many sizes, printed a few sheets of this, and cut all the little pictures out.  She happened to be out of the office on a Friday so I taped them up all over her office, onto her framed pictures, behind things, under the phone receiver, you name it. I dragged my office mate in as witness because I was nervous about anyone thinking I’d prowled around in her office inappropriately (aside of course from bombing it with owl pictures).

On Monday I was sick and laid around at home fretting: What if she didn’t think it was funny?  Oh God, what have I done?!

Finally I received a text: Oh, you’re diabolical.

Then another: But you have met your match.  Watch out!  I’ll get you back when you least expect it. 

A few weeks later she tried to get me back by having various staff pretend to call in sick, but I didn’t get as excited about it as I probably should have so she dropped it.

Months passed.  Finally I was out shopping for the program one glorious, sunny Friday afternoon.  I was at Walgreens buying vitamins or something.  My boss was in California at a corporate meeting, after which she would be going on vacation to the East Coast for two weeks.  I’d be in charge while she’s gone, and I was nervous about this.

I get a text from her:  Did you see my email?  Why is DBHR calling?  Are they there yet?

Uh, DBHR is the state.

Then: I’m trying to get an earlier flight back. This meeting is boring anyway. 

What?!  I reply that I’m shopping but I think I’ll just pop back to the program and make sure everything is okay.

No, she texts back.  Not an emergency!  Finish your shopping. 

A minute later: Wonder who could be complaining to them about us?

I wonder if it’s a patient we’d had recently who is known to file grievances; he’d been upset that we wouldn’t allow him to use electronics like his cell phone or tablet.  He enjoyed threatening to sue us.

Nah, she says.  The state wouldn’t care about that.  They only care about abuse, neglect, death.

Abuse?!  Neglect?!  DEATH?!!  Now I am freely panicking.  Sweat is starting to bead up on my forehead.  I feel faint.

….Yeah, they would care about abuse.  Like maybe abuse of a DON who richly deserved it, maybe for covering someone’s office in owls or something. 

Oh internets.  You know when you ride a really scary roller coaster, and you’re not so sure you should be doing this, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to die?  And you don’t die, and afterward you’re so giddy with relief that you can’t stop laughing and smiling?  You’re like, hysterical with relief?  You know that feeling?  Yeah.  That was the feeling.  I laughed for about thirty full minutes.  I walked through the store laughing and smiling uncontrollably with relief such that total strangers laughed along with me.  I probably looked like a candidate for my workplace.

Oh, you got me good, I texted to her.  You got me real good.  But you’d better start sleeping with one eye open.

Recently we had a “getting to know you” activity posted in the hallway at work.  Each of us listed three interesting facts about ourselves.  My boss’s last fact: Not fond of owls.

I promptly printed up a little something and pasted it over that line: I love owls with every fiber of my being.

Shortly thereafter I found pictures of owls with the red circle/slash symbol over them pasted to things in my office.  There was one in my fridge.

Today she sent me a link to a site about fractal art.  It was a picture of a hawk or some other type of raptor, which she had mistaken for an owl.  I googled “fractal art owl” and sent her that link.  She replied:  Ugly!!!

I emailed her:  Oh, did I show you my new wallpaper?

desktop owl

It’s Fun to Wear a Patch

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So last year The Lovely Rhonda and I attempted to join an iconic women’s motorcycle club.  We learned of a local chapter and we were excited.

Oh.  The disappointment.  It was awful.

In the middle of this attempt a group of the club’s members split off and we found ourselves swept up in the drama.  It was like a soap opera, complete with arch-villains and intrigue and stuff like that.  I’d say more but these are litigious folk.  So we’ll just leave it at that.

In the end, we opted not to join and instead became friends with the women who had split off.  We have found them to be loyal, compassionate, strong women whom we are proud to call friends.

A while back we decided to form a rider’s group.  This is not a club — a club has to have rules and dues and all kinds of things.  We are just a group of friends who thought it would be fun to wear a patch.

Recently the patches arrived, and most of us went out to a leather shop to have them sewn on vests.  (Sadly, we just put a new roof on the rental house and it was not cheap, so we will be getting vests at a later date.  And TLR had to stay home and write a paper.  But I went along.)

Patchy!

Patchy!

Biker names

Biker names

Brute!

Brute!

Some of the so-called ladies

Some of the so-called ladies