Plans

I have so many plans.  I haven't had any plans for so very long and now I have so many plans.

I am taking an on-line course from Cornell's summer program.  The lectures and videos could consume half the day, if I let them.  The reading could take up the rest.  But I've read the text several times before, and the videos are History channel and the animated Mythic Warriors - interesting in their own right but not worthy of more of my time today.

I have plans.

I found a book on my Kindle; its origin is a mystery to me.  It could be an Amazon Prime New Reads freebie, or a book I had on hold from the library.  It doesn't matter.  I started it after checking in with my course (no comments in the Discussions so I moved on) and finished it before TBG and I swam this afternoon. The characters were in the water with me.

It's November Road by Lou Berney.  A fixer with a heart, a woman on the lam, and the murder of JFK kept me in my chair, with only a quick break for lunch.  I almost forgot I had plans.

Now, after I finish writing to you, we'll FaceTime with the grandchildren, then Zoom with Dr K and Not-Kathy and Fast Eddie and JannyLou, because it's too damn hot to sit outside in the driveway or on the patio.  I'll have to think about what to wear; this is as close to "going out" as it gets these days.

A fast dinner and then Trivia, again on Zoom, with Big Cuter and Queen T and their very very very smart friends will round out the evening.  

So many plans.  So very odd.

She REALLY Doesn't Like Her Uncle Donald

At TBG's urging, I bought Too Much and Never Enough - How My Family Created the World's Most Dangerous Man last week, and downloaded it to the Kindle when it was released yeaterday.  I read it today.  It's all you think it is, and more, with a dash of vitriol that's understandable and vaguely unsettling.

There's not a happy camper in the bunch.

The subtitle tells the story.  Her grandfather, her grandmother, her uncles and her aunts.... every one of them and their spouses have their secrets laid bare.  The money held them together the way G'ma used to describe certain relatives on Daddooooo's side: sure, they'll give it to you.... but there are always strings attached.

Humiliation, belittlement, denigration - Mary Trump describes a Dickensian childhood surrounded by those who thought they were better than she, than the rubes, than everyone except Donald and Fred.  For Fred, she has no excuses.  For Donald, she uses her PhD in psychology to provide a credible description of the psychological damage and the coping skills that evolved from growing up in such a dysfunctional family.  

The first half of the book is a deep dive into the family, as seen from the perspective of a cousin who was almost-inside.  The bruises she carries from her father's sad life pervade the book; at times, I had to put it down and take a breath.  

The second half of the book, dealing with Atlantic City and beyond, is more vicious. At times, the paragraphs fall over one another, a catalog of misbehaviors, stunning in their careless disregard for the rules, any rules.

It's a fast and easy and breezy read.  It explains, perhaps, some of the why's.  I don't think it will change anyone's mind about anything, but it's an interesting peek behind the curtain.  I'll leave you with this, from Chapter 9: The Art of the Bailout.

As usual, the lesson Donald learned was the one that supported his preexisting assumption: no matter what happens, no matter how much damage he leaves in his wake, he will be okay. Knowing ahead of time that you're going to be bailed out if you fail renders the narrative leading up to that moment meaningless. Claim that a failure is a tremendous victory, and the shameless grandiosity will retro-actively make it so. That guarnateed that Donald would never change, even if he were capable of changing, because he simply didn't need to.  It also guaranteed a cascade pf increasingly consequential failures that would ultimately render all of us collateral damage.  

Consequences

For two weeks we sat outside, watching the sunset with Big Cuter and Queen T, his sweetie, comfortably ensconced in chairs on the back patio.  There were some clouds.  There were bats.  There were giant flying beetles which attacked my son, and only my son.

The sunsets were grey and pink and bright yellow.  The clouds were high, when they were there at all.  For the last few days of their visit, the kids saw storm clouds moving in from the south, bringing humidity but no thunder or lightning.

Then, they left.

And all hell broke loose.

The winds on Saturday night were astoundingly fierce.  The front windows, facing east, were bowing.  I stood outside under the overhand in the backyard and felt absolutely nothing.  Not a breeze, not a whiff of impending rain, not a leaf blown into my face.  It was peaceful and calm, sheltered under the corners of the house, while the trees in the open space beyond were whippped to a fenzy.

There was no lightning to amuse me.  I went back inside to the television, and then to bed.

In the morning, the pool was covered with plant detritus.  A glance out the library window and the dining room window showed no damage in the front; we set to work cleaning the mess to spare the pool's filter an overwhelming task.  Then, I opened the garage door to pick up the Sunday paper and I saw this:

Yes, that's one third of our palo verde, lying peacefully on my driveway.  Want to see the damage up close and personal?  

Branches broke off the still-standing trunk, healthy branches torn asunder by the winds. One of the main trunks (palo verdes are pruned to have multiple trunks) split neatly from the others.

The tree is not rotted; you can tell by the healthy innards exposed by the disastrophe.... and it is a disastrophe, even as the animals begin to build homes in the newly exposed areas.  See the thin yellow strand crossing the V?  That wasn't there earlier this morning when I took the first photos.

The desert is not easy.  The extremes have consequences.  For the homeowner, that means scheduling the handyman to clear the driveway and dispose of the fallen limbs.  For those who live in and on and under the Great Outdoors, it means new possibilities.

There are consequences.  Not all of them are problematic; some bring opportunities.  Of course, since I'm at the top of this food chain, the new housing development currently under construction will be removed tomorrow.  Urban renewal in my own front yard.... I feel (vaguely) guilty.

Happy BIrthday, Giblet

You are at the beach today.  You are two years old.  You don't realize that the world is weird.

I would like to be you.

You are your Dada's Mini-Me, from the backwards ball cap to the swagger, stopping off along the way at the tractors and the love.

Because, just like your Dada, you are all about the love. 

I yuh you was your first sentence, the first time you joined the conversation, the first time you could say in words what your body had been telling us all since the day you were born.  You are so happy to be where you are, and you can't wait to share that joy.

Even before you toddled, you managed to maneuver yourself into a hug... on the nearest available lap.... or dog.  You never stayed very long, being a perpetual motion machine, but the quality of the time spent more than outweighed its brevity.

And your smile - incoming and on the way out, your enthusiasm often overtaking reason and gravity and No, floor, No! comes right after Oh, NO! during your inevitable flops.  Undaunted, you are up and running.

Bruises be damned!  Full speed ahead!

You are exasperatingly delightful. Your face lights up into sparkles and your eyes twinkle with that I know I'm naughty but I'm also DAMN CUTE, aren't I???? look and suddenly Mama's headache from all your screaming vanishes.  Exasperatingly delightful.... or just plain charming?

Screaming is your default right now.  It's a phase.  It will pass, just as your deliciously chubby self has vanished, replaced by a sturdy little boy, standing on the top of the slide, arms flung overhead, announcing your presence with authority.

Happy Happy Birthday, Giblet!!  Gramma loves you very much.

jpetersenphotography.com

I Have My Desk Back

It started at just before Thanksgiving, when I paid the last set of bills due before the holidaze began.  I created a file to hold my receipts and wish lists, but found that most everything I did was online, and printing out paperwork was redundant and wasteful.

When packages arrived, I opened and recycled the envelopes and boxes, stacked the gifts in appropriate piles, and put the invoices in the manila envelope designed to hold such things.

Guests arrived. Gifts arrived.  Thank you notes were required, so a pile was started in one corner of the desk, designed to hold such things.

Then the library turned into a bedroom and the desk was where I tossed things I didn't want to lose.... all atop one pile on one side, rising precariously out of the wire mesh in/out box, which was designed to hold such things, only not as many of them as were added.

It went on like this after the guests left in early January.  I took my time taking down the decorations, and TBG didn't seem to mind the memories they sparked.  Organizing my thank you's and returning that which did not work/fit/appeal and getting ready to reopen the school garden after winter break took all my time. 

The desk kept getting worse. 

Yes, the chair was involved as well.

Bills come electronically.  The printer broke sometime after quarantine began so I couldn't add anything on my end, but the USPS kept sending items which I opened and tossed onto the pile... the one designed, at this point, to collect such things.

Then Big Cuter brought his sweetheart for a mid-isolation vacation, and she needed the library and desk to continue to be productive. 

I had no choice.  I found 3 boxes - garbage, recycle, and deal with later.  Everything else went to its proper file/drawer/room/shelf.  In one long morning, I reduced the pile to this.

And now I am sitting at my desk, which I've not done in six months or more, watching the weather come in acrfoss the mountains.  It's good to be back.

Feeling Pretty Good Right Now

7 - 2.

Gorsuch and Kavanaugh in the majority. 

Thomas agreeing that the President does not enjoy unlimited immunity from prosecution. 

I can wait to see his tax returns.  I think Congress ought to be reined in if they are just looking for trouble.  The details were always less important than the fact that he was bitching about it at all.

The arguments were spurious and the Justices saw through them.  This delights me. 

I've been worried about our institutions and their ability to withstand Trumpism.  For today, at least, my anxiety has lessened.
*****
Okay, that's the part I'd say in public.  For you, though, there's this:

Gorsuch and Kavanaugh in the majority.  Oh, this makes me smile so hard my cheeks are aching.

Can you imagine the noise from the Orange Menace when he heard?  Can you imagine how pissed off he must be? 

All of a sudden the reality sinks in - he can't always get what he wants.  Even the people who owe him a life-time appointment can say no and there is nothing he can do about it.

He's ruined our country's reputation. He's sending secrets to Putin.  He's creating super-spreader events. 

I'm not a nice person for wishing ill on anyone, and I'm feeling vaguely guilty about typing this, but I'm honest here in The Burrow, and right now my inner bad girl is doing a happy dance.
*****
Big Cuter wants me to emphasize that if the Court had ruled differently, the tax returns would be available to Congress immediately, giving the Trump campaign one more distraction from any positive message they might possibly find to convince someone to re-elect the man.

I don't think anything will change the minds of those who want to vote for him, or those who will never vote for him.  For those in the middle...... if our planless pandemic isn't enough for them, they're already lost.

We Are So Screwed

VP Pence: "The president said today, we just don’t want the guidance to be too tough. That’s the reason why next week, the C.D.C. is going to be issuing a new set of tools."

Any wonder the man paid someone to take his SAT's?

Any wonder he can't pay attention to the PDB?

Any wonder that he thinks Frederick Douglass is still alive?

Any wonder that he alone alerted the world to the meaning of Juneteenth?

Any wonder that setting off fireworks on Mt. Rushmore seemed like a good idea?

Any wonder that he wants a full, un-distanced, unmasked house at his nominating convention? 

Every once in a while I get too fed up with his nonsense.  This is right up there with the Sharpie on the hurricane map - our President is an idiot.

There, I've said it.  

Lash out at me. Chastise me.  Tell me I need to look for the good............  there is none.

Names

My landscapers are coming tomorrow.  They've been coming every month for three years.  It's always the same guys.  They've told me their names a dozen times.  The answers don't seem to stick.

I knew the name of my favorite waitress at Ghini's; her male counterpart remains a mystery even after ten years of tuna fish sandwiches.  

First Watch and Margie go together like the roast beef and havarti on toasted bread without cheese crust she brings me without my having to ask.  Why her name has stuck in my feeble brain when the delightful hostess at Grumpy's, our around the corner, neighborhood dive, has never made it into my permanent memory bank?

TBG is worse than I am.  When we lived in Chicago we had an ongoing laugh over his Beth Who???, in response to any comment about our friend Beth, a woman we saw on a fairly regular basis.  He uses mnemonics to help. Although George Washington and Martha reminds me of the couple he references, their real names are Al and Sally.  He has no clue.

He's made a point of learning the names of the obscure character actors who reappear in the old movies we love.  Ian Hunter.  Ann Sheridan.  Eugene Pallette.  Gail Patrick.  He recognizes and names them all.  

But the mail carrier who hand delivers our stuff when the mailbox gets full, to be sure we're just lazy and not in need - no idea at all.

Ann Landers wrote that repeating the name 3 times sets it firmly in your brain.  I tried that for a while.  My brain must not be wired like hers was.

But the best name story happened in my house, when TBG and I hosted a holiday gathering for the hundred or so people in his department, inviting all those he'd hired and their families. There were a lot of them.  I approached one young family member with an outstretched hand, introduced myself, and apologized for forgetting her name, if we'd met before.

Oh, yes,  we have met before.  Seven times.  We met at.... and.... and....

And so it went, a list of the seven times she'd told me her name.  By the 4th instance, I was ready to douse her with my drink.  At the end, to her self-satisfied and smug face, I smiled and said I'm glad to meet you for the 8th time and walked away, wondering why she thought snarking off to the boss's wife was a good idea.

Still, it makes for a good story when I've embarrassed myself by not remembering Beth Who?????

How're You Doing, Parenting-wise?

Little Cuter and SIR got their answer on Saturday night.  

They celebrated the 4th of July with fireworks on the street.  The kids in their immediate neighborhood are about the same age; the grown-ups share the same desire for loud and sparkly explosions.  Three families organized a social distanced display, each on their own driveway, watching the colors and cheering the booms from their front yards .

There was no down time involved, no driving and parking and waiting patiently in lawn chairs for the fun to begin.  Now, Dada!! was enough.  SIR constructed a platform and kept inquisitive toddlers far away as he demonstrated his dominance.  The man does know how to put on a show.

Then the neighborhood quieted down, and the family went into the backyard for s'mores and fairy lanterns.  They lit them and watched them waft into the air, disintegrating as the flames ate their light coverings.

Little Cuter explained that wishes could be made;  FlapJilly's face turned wistful.  

Mama wondered, gently, if the kid wanted to share her wish.

I wished that I could always spend this much time with my family..........

FlapJilly's a Star

TBG and I are doing all that we can to insure that Mark Kelly replaces Martha McSally in the US Senate in January.  We planned to host an Afternoon With The Candidate in our home in April.  Sadly, that (and many other things) didn't happen.  

And then, the campaign had the idea to host an on-line Astro-Hour.  Mark and his astronaut brother, Scott, Rusty Schweikert, and Karen Nyberg (whose husband just rode up to the ISS) talked about one another, about space, and about how wonderful Mark is.

Then they took questions.  Eight of them were written in and read by the moderator.  And then there was FlapJilly.  

The Finance Director wondered if I knew any children who might want to ask a question of an astronaut.  A kid asked a question on the first of these calls, and it was a big hit.  Did I know someone he could ask?

Did I know someone?  

I hung up, called Little Cuter and FlapJilly, explained the situation, and received a commitment.  The deal was done; all we had to do was wait until Wednesday night.  Til then, the kid and her mom practiced the question, decided on an outfit, and decorated the wall background with the mural of the planets The Bride taught her kindergartener and ours about during e-learning.  

Was she excited?  Sleep was an impossibility the night before; the next day was July, her birthday month, and the Zoom call.

Finally,  the call began. The grown ups talked and the kid had a snack to keep her awake until she went on after 8pm..... well past bedtime.  

And then, my granddaughter's face was on the screen, right next to all those famous people.  She was introduced as a future astronaut.  She waved and said HI!! and then wondered, in front of 200+ people on the Zoom call, to adults she'd never met before, How do you bake cookies in space?

Karen Nyberg laughed and explained the problems of baking in the ISS.  She described an experiment in which they actually did bake cookies, but they couldn't eat them.... they were an experiment.  The other faces on the screen were grinning at my little one; we here in Arizona were breaking our faces with smiles.

It took about 50 seconds.  Then they went outside to scream and dance.  FlapJilly felt like her skin is on fire!!  She was SO PROUD of herself (as she affirmed this afternoon: SO PROUD!!.  

They had ice cream to finish the celebration before crashing in bed.

Remember when you had a new experience like that?

There's hardly anything new in Covid-land, hardly any adventures.  It's been a challenge to provide room for growth when you don't leave the confines of your house.  Though the campaign thanked us profusely, it is really they who should be thanked.  

Just look at this face:

(taken by jpetersenphotography.com right after the call ended)

Happy (Weirdest Ever) 4th of July

reworked, revised, revisited...yes, you've read parts of this before

The sky is pure blue, "painted that way as G'ma said every time she looked up.  The occasional fluffy white cloud drifts by, and I'm hearing G'ma remark on that, too.  The flag in front of the house is swaying, the pole wedged between the base and the capital of one of the front columns, secured with thin, silver, crafting wire.  

It's an elegant solution to TBG's reluctance to put holes in his house;  I feel like Daddooooo every time I wrap another ring around the post.

Daddooooo was big on ingenious remedies to intractable problems.  He was also big on flags and the 4th of July.  We always went to the beach.  We always stopped at Custom Bakers on the way home, where the owners always let us go back and stick our fingers in the vats of frosting.

We always went to the Boardwalk in Long Beach, arriving as the sun was setting.  Skeeball and mechanical fortune tellers and the smell of the ocean, too black to be seen but too noisy to go unnoticed, occupied us as we waited for night to fall.  We practiced our ooohs and aahhhs; we were in fine form by the time the booms and the bangs began.

Through it all, the flags were flying.

There was a big one in the bracket beside the garage door, until the house was painted and further holes were frowned upon (is this some kind of male thing I just don't get?). A pole-holding-tube was sunk into the flower box, and while it was neither sturdy nor attractive, it did the job and as far as Daddooooo was concerned that was that.

There was a plastic flag attached to the car's antenna, and all our bicycles had flags on the handlebars.   

I'm not letting the tradition fade away.  I'm ambivalent about much of America right now, confused by rethinking our past, embarrassed by our failure to keep ourselves safe.  But I'm not giving up.  I'm going to work to rid us of DJT and install a government that is truly of, by and for the people.  That's the most and the least I can do.

Happy Fourth of July, denizens! 

I'm Old

It started when the stay at home orders were just being introduced.  All of a sudden, I was in a Vulnerable Cohort.

I don't want to be in a Vulnerable Cohort.  I don't feel old enough to be in a Vulnerable Cohort.  When did this happen?  How is it that most of the people in my life are also in this Vulnerable Cohort?

When the guidelines came out, having to scroll down and down and down to find 1952 while registering for something on-line seemed more ominous than amusing.  Noticing that I was in the Over 65 category smacked me in the face with reality - I am more likely to die than I was 30 years ago.

Surprising?  Probably shouldn't be, but it is.

I watch Expedition Unknown on the Discovery Channel.  Josh Gates, the host, is a 21st century

Indiana Jones.  He swims into underground caves, climbs ancient ruins, descends (by rope) into venues that normal people would avoid even thinking about.  He travels by pushcart and motor bike and gyro-copter.  He camps out in the middle of the Kalahari Desert, or, in his words 

I'm in the middle of a zoo with no cages.  If anyone needs me, I'll be crying in my tent.

That's the kind of guy I'd love to join on an adventure.  He's the Anthony Bourdain of explorers; he is as interested in the people and their clothing and their foods and their lives as he is in finding the ancient city of.... the hidden treasure of.... the long lost relic buried beneath.....

All those extraneous pieces fascinate me.  The scary parts terrify me, but if Josh can do it so can I..... until I realize that I am 68 years old, with a reconstructed hip and the endurance of ...... I'm hard pressed to come up with an analogy of my lack of aerobic capacity.  There's no way in the world that he'd take me along.  I couldn't keep up, though my attitude would be upbeat and charming. 

I find myself having the same conversation in my head, over and over and over.  I could do that. That would be cool.  Too bad I have kids and a house and a husband; I'd go on that adventure in a heartbeat.  

It all feels very real, as if I actually could make a call and join the crew. 

And then I remember.  I'm old.

Time Flies ....

.....whether you're having fun or not.  

This was the Google doodle today, the last day of June, Pandemic 01.  

This Pride Month we honor Black trans women and LGBTQ+ people of color

There is so much about this that was unheard of, let alone unthinkable, when I was FlapJilly's age.  There is so much more (though, obviously, still not enough) freedom to be than there was in 1958;  Marlo Thomas's iconic Free to Be You and Me was published in 1972, 

 the year TBG graduated Cornell.

Amster's boys, who you met in pre-school, are now Messers 15 and 17, high school kids who text to see if I need any help.  I asked Amster how this could have happened; Idk  I seriously do not.  

FlapJilly's going to ask the astronauts a question on tomorrow's Zoom AstroHour fund raiser for Mark Kelly.  When I met Mark Kelly my granddaughter wasn't even a glimmer in her parents' eyes.  Now, instead of a in hospital room surrounded by armed security guards, the kid is going to say hello from her dining room table.  

I can conjure Mark sitting in the recliner in my room, chatting with MTF about space, as if it were happening right now.  I can also go back, oh how easily can I go back, to the days before knowing an astronaut was on my radar, before I was perforated.  Those first few days home from the hospital, how it felt, what I thought, they are all deeply imprinted.  

It was yesterday and it was forever ago.

It's hard to remember that life is going on when I'm watching it unfold on the television and on my phone and on my iPad and on Lenore the Lenovo without being able to add any of my own items to What Happened Today.  

As JannyLou texted yesterday,  we will be doing nothing here and then starting again.