Time Goes By

Little One has been on hiatus from piano lessons as her days are filled with studies, cheerleading practice, basketball games, and practice for the Youth Play at the local little theatre. The kids are doing Midsummer Night's Dream this year, and she is a fairy. She's also in the church youth choir and attends Young Life every week.
She clearly misses piano lessons, and has played her piano as much as ever during this break, missing only the lessons themselves. It's two less chauffeur trips a week for me, thankfully..

Lately she's been playing and singing an old favorite of hers, "100 Years" by Five for Fighting.
Here are the lyrics:

I'm fifteen for a moment
Caught in between ten and twenty
And I'm just dreaming
Counting the ways to where you are

I'm twenty two for a moment
She feels better than ever
And we're on fire
Making our way back from Mars

Fifteen… there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to lose
Fifteen…there's never a wish better than this
When you only got a hundred years to live…

I'm thirty three for a moment
Still the man but you see I'm a they
A kid on the way
A family on my mind

I'm forty five for a moment
The sea is high
And I'm heading into a crisis
Chasing the years of my life

Fifteen… there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to lose yourself
Within a morning star

Fifteen… I'm all right with you
Fifteen… there's never a wish better than this
When you only got a hundred years to live…
Half time goes by
Suddenly you’re wise
Another blink of an eye
Sixty seven is gone
The sun is getting high
We're moving on...

I'm ninety nine for a moment
Dying for just another moment
And I'm just dreaming
Counting the ways to where you are...

Fifteen… there's still time for you
Twenty two… I feel her too
Thirty three… you’re on your way
Every day's a new day

Fifteen… there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to choose
Hey fifteen… there's never a wish better than this
When you only got a hundred years to live...

Little One has sung this song before and, while I noticed how lovely the words are, I've never been so moved by the words.. and her.. and me.

She's almost fifteen now! And she sits, and plays piano so beautifully, and sings the words with pure spirit and a heart just bursting with love for her music.

I'm on the other end of the cycle, past the halfway mark in my own life, just now beginning to reach my prime, just now beginning to serve in a way I'd like to serve, and thinking back on how I've spent my own life. "Capture your moments!" I want to say. "Hold on! Don't rush it!" and finally, "I am so proud of you! Please keep singing -- no matter what, please... just... sing."

But I say nothing. And she moves on to another song.

Fifteen -- there's still time for you
And you've only got a hundred years to live...

04.January.2010

It's a cold day outside, a really cold day, and I am still in my robe and slippers with a space heater nearby. Little One is still in bed; it's her last day of Christmas break. Next week she has exams for the very first time, and she has studied every day.

She did an extraordinary job of caring for the dogs for a week for the down-the-street neighbors, who visit family in Connecticut every year between Christmas and New Year's. Sure, there were a day or two when we had to remind her, but after that, she took it seriously and considered the weather when going down there. She made 2 trips a day -- evening to take them inside and morning to feed them and take them out. It was bitter-cold and she would go early in the evening if she thought the dogs would appreciate being inside a little extra. She asked me to come along the last day so we could gather all the dog food cans and take them to wash and recycle. The dogs wagged tails and were very quiet and respectful of her when we came in; I could tell they appreciate her.

DH gave me a book of short stories with my Christmas and it is haunting me. All the stories are set in the 70's; each story includes a character who saw the guy walking on a tightrope between the towers of the World Trade Center. It's similar to the new book Olive Kitteridge in that way; in that book, each story stands on its own, but each one includes a character who knows Olive.
This book is named Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann. It won the National Book Award and has been on the NY Times best seller list for 4 weeks now. (Olive has been on for 29.)
The stories are compelling. The writing is tight yet descriptive. Lots of fragmented sentences. Yet the stories are about noble people, people with hearts, to whom LIFE happens. The stories are heartbreaking -- they give me bad dreams -- and yet I cannot stop reading. This guy is a Good Writer, and already I dread finishing the book.

I have been studying the Harlem Children's Zone. I first heard of it a few years ago when my favorite radio show, This American Life, did a feature on Baby College. I was intrigued.

During the campaign when my mentor mentioned the northeast quadrant of our city -- what can we do about the crime? the poverty? I googled the Harlem Baby College and realized it's a component of the larger program, the Children's Zone. I am continuing to study it. Last night I listened to more interviews of the founder, Geoffrey Canada. Today I am getting the book about it, Whatever it Takes, by NY Times editor Paul Tough.

During his campaign Barack Obama committed to implementing programs modeled after the HCZ in 20 cities around the US. This program is called "20 Promise Neighborhoods." I am intrigued, and looking into it.

So for LO's last of holiday -- we are : getting her eyebrows done, taking her new dress to the alterationist, buying new flats, getting our nails done, and calling for an appointment for new retainers. The old ones are lost, but these lasted a year, a new record.

Sigh. Shower. Dress. and, Out!

Gallon of Ambition and my Pint Glass of Life

My DH knows for sure: I am in love with another man. A man I've never met. Who knows? He might snore and leave his drawers on the floor, too.

I'm talking about Danny Gregory, a self-taught artist who lives in NYC. Ever read the words of someone else and think, "Wow, that's EXACTLY how I feel, but he said it BETTER than I ever could have, if I had thought to say it at all.." For me, that's Danny.

Some years ago, Danny and his wife were a young, upwardly mobile couple with dynamic careers in NYC. They had just had a baby. Things looked good. The wife was on her way to work when she fell over the edge of the subway station. She. was. run. over. by. a. subway. train. Her spine was severed. She lived, but was paralyzed.I am probably botching the details; Danny says it all really well in his first book, Everyday Matters. Please read it.

She was in the hospital for weeks, maybe months, and Danny was left to care for the baby and try to figure out how they would go on when she came home in the wheelchair. I'm sure it was life-changing for her, but it was he who wrote the book, so I only know his side.

Finally, he began to draw. As an adult. It was his therapy.

Now he has a website and has written books promoting the philosophy that anyone can draw-- you just have to start. And draw. And draw and draw and draw. Now he is friggin' good. I love to draw and aspire to be decent at it one day, so I follow this guy on his website, have most of his books (but I have a birthday coming up! The titles I do not have are "Me Time" and "Change Your Underwear Twice a Week.")

Today by chance I read a post of his that had to do with ambition and accomplishing one's goals. I read it right here at the dawn of a new year, a time when I always think of my "gallon of ambition and my pint glass of life." It was meaningful for me. I am posting an excerpt here and hope that by crediting him -- I'll even post the hyperlink -- this is legal enough.

Here it is. The link is: http://www.dannygregory.com/?cat=28

My grandfather died last winter at 98 so I’m not even half his age yet. Maybe
I’m only approaching the midpoint of my life, or maybe I’ll have massive heart
attack and keel over at my desk this afternoon. There’s no telling. Regardless,
I know each day and hour are precious. But it’s hard to keep the relentless
tsunami of stuff, or responsibilities, of things I want to do, from swiftly
wiping each day off the board before I can even wipe the sleep out of my eyes.
Life moves quickly and the further along the road I get, the faster the pages
fly off the calendar. Knowing this, trying to hold it on my mind, can help me to
prioritize. But it’s still tough to keep the world at bay and to decided how to
spend my time well. Often I lie in bed and think, damn, when am I going to get
to read all those books I want to read or spend more time drawing with Jack or
more time cooking dinner with Patti. When am I going to get to live in
Micronesia or the South of France or in that little house in the meadow? When
will I get to spend two hours a day at the gym or four hours a day doing oil
paintings or six hours a day reading Proust? When will I learn Italian? Learn to
drive a motorcycle? Defend my heavyweight boxing title? I’m not filled with
regret because I somehow feel I will get to do these things. I’m just not sure
how or when. Perhaps my appetite is just larger than my calendar. Fortunately I
am often insomniac so I get to spend 3 to 4 a.m. thinking about stuff I didn’t
fit in during the day (most of it actually just anxious nonsense). Anyway, this
consideration of my gallon of ambition and my pint glass of life set me on the
way to a new project. It’s something I’ve mulled over for a while and finally
out into action. It’s an effort to really think about the things I wished I
could have fit into a day and then an attempt to fit one of them into the next
day.

The TV in the Room

CAN YOU FIND the TV in this picture of our Living Room?















Can you find it now?













How about now?

















You are VERY warm...

















Were you right?

Years ago, we bought a case of old books at an estate auction --$7.50 for the case. Sweet husband cut them on the bandsaw. I arranged them the way I wanted them, and he glued them on. Note the faux shelf in the middle, with bookmarks hanging over.

For years, the books were glued on a plain white piece of plywood. Hubby said over and over, "Surely someone can paint some shading to make this look real."

Last month I suggested my friend Mimi.

Hubby drove to her house and asked if she might be willing to take on the project in trade for some handyman work. (She is a recent widow.)

(By the way, check out the first picture. The bookshelves themselves were built by talented husband. ~i glow with pride~)

New Kitchen Door

Here is the old kitchen door, a louvered monster that we can't believe was original to the house. We imagine it was put in, for some ungodly reason, in the 80's. It was beige, and no matter how hard I scrubbed it, it looked like 20 years of nicotine. I. hate. beige.





Beside it are the carcasses of the old cabinets. At one point I had the bright idea to paint the back of a cabinet red and remove the cabinet doors to make a display of my crystal. DH hated the idea, so I put the doors back on and left the red inside. It does look like a hemorrhage, doesn't it?






Here is the new, old door, a six-panel in the basement. It was too short and too wide for the DR-kitchen door, but no fear.

It also had had doorknobs, and is now destined to be a swinging door. Hubby had to fill holes on each face of the door, and on the edge, as well.

Another view of original door.

Hubby removes the trim from panel #2 so I could take it to the glassmakers.






















Almost gave us a vision of what it would look like at the end.











Here is the door as he is working on the width and height. He cut the bottom off another basement door and, using dowels, added to the length of this one. He also trimmed width from each edge of this door to make it narrow enough for the doorway.

Look to the right! The new kitchen cabinets are miraculously in!

Dry-fitting it from the DR side.















Sanding for paint.

























Here you can see the notch for the swinging-door mechanism.













Ta-daa! Final product! I am loving it. TY, sweet hubby!

Check out that chrome at bottom of door! The hinge was originally chrome on kitchen side, brass on DR side. Alas, the brass was only plated, so he painted DR side, but polished up the chrome on kitchen side.

Ouch

I had thought my recent case of poison ivy was painful until yesterday, when I got the doctor's bill.

Ouch.

It wasn't a bill, per se, but an explanation of benefits from the insurance company. I had paid my $40 copay and moved on. Yesterday I saw the real costs.

The medical portion is listed as $12: cheaper, actually, than I had anticipated, and well worth the price. I would say it's easily worth more than $12 to me. I am allergic to poison ivy and swell up like a blowfish. Last time I had it, I wasted about $100 trying this OTC cure and that one from the local drugstore, before finally giving up and going in for a cortizone shot. The shot gives me almost instant relief. It stops the spread of the rash, and within 2 or 3 days, the rash begins to dry up.

This time I did waste a day or two with Ivy Dry (momentary relief from the pain, then more intense pain within 5 minutes of application) and Caladryl (some pain relief but continued spread of the gross, oozy rash). Finally I surrendered and called the physician's office. Because I was a work-in, I asked for the nurse practitioner.

My paperwork from yesterday shows that we were charged $94 for the office visit. I waited 42 minutes in the waiting room, and waited 10 minutes in the exam room. She examined my arm for about 2 minutes, and left to get the shot for me. I heard her in another exam room, examining another patient while I waited 20 minutes for the shot.

It took about 2 minutes to expose my bum to her and receive the shot.

When I try to imagine how my doctor, who is a heck of a nice guy, would justify $100 for 5 minutes of attention, I guess he would attribute parts of it to the billing clerk who took my check, the nurse who weighed me, the lights, the walnut furniture, and so on.

I wish I were normal and could just use the Ivy Dry.

I caught the poison ivy from a bale of pine straw from Lowe's. I did wear gloves, but the rash began on my upper wrist, just beyond the rim of the glove.

I have one more bale still in the garden, waiting to be spread. DH has suggested I tuck long sleeves into the gloves and wrap duct tape around the edge of the gloves. Somewhere along the way, I lost my enthusiasm for the whole thing.

She Sat and LOOKED at the Cookie

A year or so ago, our 10-year-old dog began NOT responding when I called her in.

First thing every morning, I let her run out in the yard to peepee. In the fall, spring and summer, I stand on the porch. I water my flowers, bring in the paper, pull a weed.

In the winter, I stand in the LR and watch Little Dog through the window.

After she is finished relieving herself, she likes to wander the yard and smell the smells. We get a good bit of foot traffic here in the Avenues, and it's my understanding that everyone who walks down our sidewalk leaves a teensy business card of odor along the way. I can't smell it, but LD can.

But I have other things to accomplish in the early morning. I have to fix breakfast. Dress. Do my hair. Make coffee. Wind the clocks. Take my vitamin. Take LO to school.

So I call her in. A year ago, as I said, she started not coming. I would call. I would clap my hands. I would say her name peppy--I would say it loudly--I would call it sing-song. She hummed along, sniffing the grass or the sidewalk. Was she ignoring me? or had she lost her hearing? I determined to find out.

So I bought dog cookies. We weren't in the habit of giving her treats at the time, so I surveyed the offering at the store, and selected Bac'n Beggin' Strips. Flavored with cheese.

It wasn't her hearing.

Now when she finishes up, she runs to the door. Sits on the mat and waits for me. Smiles.
The funny thing is, she and the cats are demonstrating Learned Behavior.
When LD comes promptly, I tell her, "Good Girl!"
So now, she thinks, "good girl" means, cookie.
Of course, she knows, "Cookie" means, cookie.

When LD goes out in the morning, the cats cluster by the front door, waiting for her to finish up. As she comes in and runs to the kitchen, they run with her.

You see, some months ago, I felt badly for them. She gets a cookie. They did not.

So I bought Kitty Cookies.

Now, All God's Children get cookies after LD peepees.

They all run to the kitchen and prowl around beside the cupboard where I keep the cookies.

Little Dog has to sit as I get the cookies out. When I have one in my hand, I ask her to Sit Up.

She does.

Today, I dropped her cookie. She was sitting, waiting, as usual.

She remained sitting, and looked at the cookie. Then she looked at me. The cats stopped their circling and looked at me.

This isn't how we do it, they were thinking.

So of course, I petted her, held up the cookie, and gave it to her.

Good dog.

Girlfriends

The three of us got together last night for the first time in forever. Ever since one of us moved to a larger city 40 miles away, it's been a struggle to maintain our gf time.

The two of us who remain in town have continued to support each other with irregular but consistent get-togethers: wine after the kids are in bed, coffee in the morning.

My gf here in town sadly lost her stepdad on Sunday. I called gf #3 to let her know. She came to town last night for the visitation, mostly to support our friend. At the funeral home, I offered to take her little girls home for reading and getting ready for bed; they had been there for an hour already. More than an hour at a funeral home is hard for anyone -- especially children.

So I whisked the little girls back to their house and the other 2 gf's came in by 8:30. We talked and laughed into the night: commiserating about the loss, hearing about a new job, and reviewing details about my campaign.

I came home a happy woman, thankful again for the gift of girlfriends.

Running for Office with a Teenager in the House

At first, I thought LO would be all gung-ho, helping me on the campaign.

When that didn't happen, I thought she would be all embarrassed. Why can't you be like other parents, and all that.

When that didn't happen, either, I realized you just can't predict this one. She's her own person, and that's that. I just accept whatever the MOD (mood of the day) is, and roll on.

So I was somewhat surprised, and more than a little pleased, last night at PTA when we saw a not-too-close neighbor.

"My Nana's running for City Council," LO said. "And she would appreciate your vote."

Afterwards, she saw me staring at her with my mouth gaping just a teeny bit.

"What?" she said. "You forgot to say it."

Water

Every day this summer, since 31.May, I have emptied my small dehumidifier in the basement THREE times a day. Its capacity is 2.5 gallons.
So for 117 days, I've emptied 7.5 gallons a day; total: 877.5 gallons of water. Where does it all come from? ...and where does it go?