Running Around Town

I was bored on Saturday afternoon.

I'd finished my book, my hands were achy from too much crocheting, and dinner wasn't going to take much work.  The clouds were gathering, so swimming was not an option.  I'd already done one Pilates video.  I had no interest in cleaning.

So, I baked brownies.  Lots of brownies.

TBG did some damage to the first pan, but I woke up on Sunday morning to more brownies than one man should eat.  Sorrowfully, he agreed with my assessment.  I bagged them up and took to the streets.

I left some in Amster's mailbox for her boys.  I left some with Scarlett for her neighbor whose dog died this week.  I hung out with Dr. K and Not-Kathy on their front porch, admiring their succulents and bemoaning the fate of the fig tree, before leaving them with some treats and driving on.

I was going to make another stop, but there was a line of people out the door so I called ahead for fried chicken from Lucky Wishbone and meandered over to pick it up.

I came home with a big smile on my face.  There was such a sense of freedom, of normalcy (normality? one of them got Hoover into trouble, and I don't remember which one is right).  I listened to the radio.  I drove on formerly familiar streets.  I noticed local restaurants replaced by national chains, and the shadows of signs where small stores once thrived.  

It was a peaceful Sunday afternoon in the summertime, with clouds gathering and the streets mostly empty.  It made me so very happy

The headline in the WaPo made me smile: Cornell students petition to have freshman TikTok star expelled for flouting coronavirus rules.

I've been leary about Cornell's plan to reopen, worrying about the 4 Tucson kids who planned to start as freshmen this month.  But the University stuck to its guns; they'd done modeling and determined that the risk was smaller if they opened.  

Why? Most students and faculty and staff would be in Ithaca anyway.  Leases are signed a year in advance and cannot easily be broken; students would return to their apartments however the teaching experience was received.  By formally opening, Cornell could require students to sign a behavioral contract in order to participate in the semester ahead.  

Masks, social distancing, participation in surveillance testing (free and twice a week at a convenient location near you), small gatherings allowed with masks and spacing - nothing unusual, just our new normal if people would get with the program. And if you want to go to Cornell this semester, you get with the program.  

No one in the wider world believed that students would be capable of being well behaved.  No one thought that college students could keep their hands and their mouths and their bodies to themselves.  No one thought they were mature enough, would care enough, were responsible enough to comply.

And I was right there, agreeing with all of that.  And then there was that headline, and I was abashed.

A freshman with 500,000 TikTok followers posted pictures of herself squished together with other maskless idiots at a party. Once word got out, a petition to have her removed from campus garnered 2000 signatures before the ink was dry.

Jessica Zhang has shown that she .... wants to put other citizens at risk for the sake of her own entertainment.   

Some students don't have the luxury of going home to a quiet and healthy environment to focus on academics.  

Do not ruin it for everyone else. 

The University received the petition, saw the TikTok schtick, and says it is taking action. 

They've only been on campus for a week or so, and look at what they've done.  They've come together to right a wrong, to expose and condemn the misbehavior, and to offer a preferred solution.  The petition ends this way, reminding us that they are, still, kids:

And if you're more mad about people exposing others for violating guidelines and putting everyone's health at risk, then you're part of the problem.

The penalties for violating the Cornell Student Behavioral Compact are of escalating severity, including expulsion with no refunds.  The petitioners want Jessica's acceptance revoked; that wasn't listed as a possible outcome in the Compact. 

To prove that the University is taking this seriously, the Compact includes this warning:

I acknowledge and agree that there is no appeal of the decisions and directives of the CCCT, as these determinations will be made on an urgent basis to protect the health and safety of the community as a whole.

 And this even more dire warning:

The decisions and directives of the CCCT will not be reported by Cornell as disciplinary records or actions. However, I acknowledge and agree that the university may disclose violations of the Compact to my parents .....

Oh no.  They're going to tell my mom.

Kids like rules.  That was my basic parenting mantra.  It worked then and it works now; FlapJilly and Giblet have a lot of freedom because there are rules in place to keep them safe.  The Class of 2024 came to campus after agreeing to abide by those same kinds of rules, and they are taking the appropriate steps to bring their wayward colleague into line.  

I really hope this works.  Transparency will help; there are daily metrics posted on the Covid-19 Tracking Dashboard.  There seems to be buy in from the students.  

This is one time when I'd like to be proven wrong.  Another weekend is coming up..... I'll be watching the numbers.

Kenosha

Words are not enough.  

Joe Biden is right - we are in a fight for the soul of our country.  And that soul looks better from one side of the racial divide than the other, as has been patently obvious over the course of the pandemic.

I want to know how to fix it, because that's what I do when there's a problem in my space.  

The NBA players refused to come out on the court, at least for tonight.  I wish I could refuse to come out of my house until there is change..... but would anyone notice.... and isn't that what I've been doing for the last 24 weeks, anyway?

There's nothing I can think about that doesn't bleed into knowing that this has been going on for 400 years, that only because there are cell phones can we see in stark detail what families of color have known for centuries.

This is just not right.  

It is the America in which we live.

It is not the America I want it to be.

I'm not coming out until I have some kind of plan.

What will he tell his son about us collectively and individually?  

I really need a plan.

There it is.  I watched it and stood up straighter.  I watched it and felt empowered.  I watched it and realized how far we've come and how far we have to go.  

Look at her walk across the set.  Look at her blow that horn.  I sat in her kitchen years ago, applauding with others as a few notes and then a few more emerged.  America really is beautiful; just listen to her and try to disagree.

All of Tucson was united for those weeks and months and now, if you ask someone if they were in town when Gabby was shot, they'll tell you why they were on their way to that corner but something came up.  It's our town's where were you when moment.  

Martha McSally is running ads caling Mark Kelly a millionaire who scammed the taxpayers.  I call him a man who loves and admires his wife.  She's well worth the adoration and the respect.  She inspires me, each and every day.

The RNC and BIrthdays

I tried to watch it, knowing full well I'd last only minutes at a time. We'd find ourselves screaming at the screen after 30 or 40 seconds before TBG hit last on the remote and took us to large men throwing a small ball through a hoop. 

At commercials, we'd click back over to see how the Republicans were doing.  Nikki Haley being a brown girl in a black and white world confused us.  Tim Scott trying to be rational amused us.  There were freed hostages looking like they hadn't changed clothes since they got off the plane, there were indicted gun toting rich people, and there was Don, Jr with his perfectly coiffed beard, showing just enough grey to add gravitas to his screeching.  

He looked at the camera as if it were dinner.  He scared theshit out of me.

I put off writing this post, because I wanted to celebrate two birthdays.  But every time I tried to put thoughts together, I got swept up into the trampling of norms, once again.  I mourned the loss of Jackie O's Rose Garden trees before I knew that Melania was going to speak there, using only campaign staff, I'm sure, to set up and clean up and run the event.  

The Hatch Act doesn't have much in the way of penalties going for it, but the idea is a nice one, don't you think?

I spent some time stewing over that while considering the fact that an alarming number of Americans think 180,000 dead fellow citizens is an acceptable number.  I tried to figure out how the emergency use blather about plasma as a therapeutic is any different than what has been going on since the start of the Pandemic.  

And in the midst of it all were the clips of Jacob Blake getting into his car .... getting shot as he was getting into his car.... all 110 pounds soaking wet of him followed by a gun wielding police officer who decided it was a good idea to shoot into his back .... with kids in the car.... and I cried.

We ended up watching George Raft movies until late.  Then the smoke detector in the bedroom decided to scream FIRE! FIRE! CARBON MONOXIDE! FIRE! while bleeping that high pitched you will not sleep through this tone.  It took TBG 5 times up the ladder before Dr. Google suggested a fix that worked.  

Why don't these beeps happen at 2 in the afternoon?  Are they deviously programmed to annoy at night?  I spent many minutes thanking TBG for being tall enough to reach the ceiling from the top of the ladder; he spent those minutes reassuring himself that his knee had, in fact, held him up the whole time.  It was an interesting confluence of emotions - anniversary love and beeping hell and Republicans and bad cops all roiling around in my head.

It was then, crawling into bed for the 3rd or 4th or 7th time, that I remembered the posts I was going to write.  For the 17 of you who read my short apology, thanks for coming back to see this.  I am sorry.  Life got in my way.

45

That's the number of years TBG and I have been married.

I'm typing this on Sunday night, and it was a Sunday night when we drove away from G'ma and Daddooooo's house, with cans tied to the back bumper and Just Married written on the windows.  

We were starving.  There was lots of food at the wedding, but we were too busy dancing and talking and hugging to eat.  Sister, my attendant, had been charged with keeping me fed.  Unfortunately for both of us, the whiskey sours caught up with her before dinner was served; neither of us ate at all.  By the time we untied the noisemakers we hit upon a plan - dinner before anything else.

We drove to Motel on the Mountain, a lovely-from-afar resort up on a mountain which I passed and lusted for every summer as Daddooooo drove us to Lake George for vacation.  We should have done our research.  Two weeks after we checked out the place closed for a total renovation.  The arachnid in the shower added to the ambience.  

The restaurant, however, was fantastic, as was the view from our table.  We toasted my parents who had paid for a meal we hadn't eaten.  We toasted our future.  We battled the spider and added up the gifts, somewhat embarrassed to be the recipients, recognizing this as somewhat weird, and smiling at the fact that we could admit it out loud.  

It's been that way for 45 years.  There aren't many filters, and that's just fine. One of us saying We shouldn't talk about this right now has saved us over the years.  Recognizing that marriage is hard work has made the bumps easier to navigate.  

Over time, the marriage has taken on a life of its own;  I often feel as if there are three of us in the house.  Sometimes it gets crowded in here, especially as we enter month six of Pandemic '01.  Most of the time, though,  the marriage is a comfy couch, with butt impressions that welcome us, support us, know us, and make allowances for our foibles, be they spills or spats.

Happy Anniversary, Big Guy.  

P.S. This is your card.

Inspired

I heard Michelle.  I heard Kristen.  I heard Khizr Khan.

I watched the best roll call ever, crying with Matthew Shepard's parents, enjoying the flowered shirts and the little kids standing stock still with signs (except the girl in the pink, who ran away as soon as she could).  I want some Rhode Island calamari.

As Big Cuter put it, every time I hear Barack Obama speak it's like a present.  On Wednesday night, he warned America of what is to come if we don't get off the couch and vote.  Nicolle and Joy and Rachel were giggling like sorority sisters as they manned (womanned?) MSNBC's analysis desk; I loved it when they cut away from the Convention for a moment to share the laughs.

I sat mesmerized as Nicolle Wallace laid out the background behind a former POTUS stepping up and slamming a current POTUS.  She was in the room.  She knows whereof she speaks; her remarks are terrifying and should be required listening for everyone who still thinks that DJT is qualified to hold office.... any office.... anywhere.

And then there was Gabby.

It's 4 months shy of a decade since she was able to put together a sentence without effort.  4 months shy of a decade of daily therapy.  4 months shy of joining us together in pain and recovery and inspiration.... because that is what the last 10 years have been like.  

I wish I could find a clip of the full video that preceded her speech.  She plays the Star Spangled on her french horn.  That takes a lot of breath, a lot of control, a lot of remembering.  She sits with her therapist, practising her speech.  Then she walks, without a cane, without much of a limp, from one side of the staged set to the podium.  Every single moment was inspirational; I've watched her struggle with each and every part of what went into those feats... and yes, feats they are.  I was drenched in tears before she opened her mouth.  Here's what she had to say

Courage.  Determination.  Getting up every day to do what needs to be done.  Once again, Gabby Giffords inspired me, as I hope she inspired those who might be considering sitting this one out.  

She is my hero.

I Have Hair

That's my plaintive description of myself every morning, as I stumble out of bed and into the living room, unable to see in front of my face.

I haven't had a haircut since February 11th, exactly one month before TBG and I began to shelter in place. I had an appointment the week afterwards; I opted to cancel it, and rescheduled to June.  After all, once this was over, everyone would be rushing to get in.  It was the smart thing to do.

You can guess how prescient we were.  That June appointment came and went.  I can't remember if it fell during one of the It's-okay-we -can-party-now reopenings they've declared here - TBG and I don't go anywhere we can avoid, and the salon is one of those places.

He could cut my hair if I wanted it shorter, having been my coiffeur for several decades.  But once I ordered clips and elastics along with the groceries I was able to keep it out of my eyes and off my neck. I have hair that annoys me, and I haven't said that in decades.

I have a pony tail for the first time since graduate school.  In a week or two I won't even need a clip to hold in the escapees.  Swimming was a challenge until enough of them were long enough to stay back.  I'd lift my head out of the water and see nothing through my goggles but hair.  I'd swim a lap and feel tickles at the nape of my neck.  I have hair now.

One small dollop of shampoo was all I ever needed; now I'm conditioning my locks and going through bottles of product with alarming frequency.  I'm combing and spraying and decorating my head with two pony tails, with clips holding the top back, with clips pinning the sides away from my ears - activities I haven't enjoyed since my 20's, when my hair reached to my waist.

In the '60's and '70's it was great hair, except that TBG is the only man I've ever met who doesn't like long hair, so the summer between social work school quarters I chopped it all off.  I could turn my head on the pillow without thwacking him in the face.  I wasn't vacuuming up long strands from the shag carpet.  I gave away my bonnet hair dryer and my sit underneath one too.  I was free, and I stayed that way until freedom went away and we were stuck inside.

What started out as a let's see where it goes experiment has morphed into Scarlett wondering what I'd done to make my hair look so good this morning.  The answer is embarrassingly straightforward - I took it out of the pony tail holder.  I didn't comb it or shake it or ruffle it with my fingers.  I just took the elastic off and opened our on-line mahjong game.  I wasn't looking for a compliment; my scalp was looking for a reprieve. 

Both Allison and dkzody commented on my lengthy tresses on Monday's post.  No one comments on my hair.  Or no one used to comment on my hair.

Pandemic '01 has been full of surprises, not the least of which is that I have hair. 

First Grade

She's wearing her black and grey dress, the one she's worn to her last 3 birthday parties, the one that twirls fabulously, the one that still fits her and makes her smile after all these years.  The choice was a no-brainer.

She knows that her best friend from kindergarten will be in her class this year, too, as will another one of the girls in their crowd.  Her teacher's name is Miss Happy.

On Tuesday, she went to her school and to pick up her packet.  She'll got her own Chromebook, because today she'll meet her classmates at an 8am meeting on a screen at her own workstation in her own home, as her parents work on their own computers at their own workstations.  

There's a full day's worth of activities planned, according to one of the many emails from the District.  There will be synchronous and non-synchronous learning.  There will be a parent available when the technology gets in the way of the learning.

It's not taking the bus with the boys down the street.  It's not playing on the playground or eating cafeteria food.  But it's First Grade in the 21st Century, and she's embracing it with all her might.

Congratulations on making it to The Grades, FlapJilly.  I know you'll crush it.

Happy Birthday, Auntie M

You can play anything with strings.  Your brother says it with certainty and I have no reason to doubt him. You are the only person I ever knew who had a harp in her living room.

You taught the most challenging students, and they learned.  American history is living and breathing through your photographs.  Lighthouses and formal gardens and more give us glimpses into the past you've discovered and shared.  

You saw a need and created a Gifted and Talented program for the state of Maryland, even though your own gifted and talented child had graduated before you saw your work come to fruition.  

You are the keeper of the family history, the one who chases down documents and photographs and hands down bracelets and stories from generations past.  

You are a mom and a wife and a friend and an aunt and the best sister-in-law a girl could imagine.  You listen.  When you speak, you have something to say.  You are kind and generous and never miss an opportunity to send a card....... which reminds me to use quarantine as an excuse when I call to sing Happy Birthday.... although you are probably reading this on the East Coast well before I'm awake here in the desert..... so

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AUNTIE M!  WE LOVE YOU A LOT!

FaceTime with FlapJilly

FlapJilly and her family have agreed to share their emotions and to ask for what they need during this Weird Time.  So, when the soon-to-be-1st-grader stated that she wasn't ready to end our daily call, it was Gramma to the rescue.  TBG went off to make a pizza, SIR was attending to Giblet, and Little Cuter had a brief moment to tend only to herself... and the house... and .. .. and.....

These young parents working from home are my heroes.  

So, after several abortive attempts to connect, we were finally on together, with our Effects keeping us amused.   My face mask includes cucumber slices; I just missed capturing it the picture.

My little marsupial hops across the screen, with FlapJilly's sweet voice singing a hopping song.

I'm not thrilled with the ones that cover her face entirely; I decided to retreat to space with E.T. while she flapped her owl wings.

Giblet got into the act when his big sister offered him the phone.  He's big for his age, but not THIS BIG!

As usual, TBG and I had not yet had lunch when the kids called.  With popcorn streaming in front of her face, FlapJilly ate her tuna while Gramma , you little devil, scooped up some yogurt.

I spared you the photo of the chihuahua vomiting dog bones.  The kid loves it; I merely pretend to be amused.

That's a pretty vicious tiger, with sharp claws that tried to injure me through the ether.  Once again, I escaped to space.

She went quickly from predator to prey, offering me her entire head to eat as much as I wanted.

Again, the kids was fascinated with seeing herself as a pixilated bomb.  I retaliated with a purple moustache and an extra 100 pounds.

We ended with Yak to School, her current favorite avatar.

School starts on Wednesday.  I'll have a lot to say about that. For now, until schools starts, she is loafing on the couch, soaking up the last free days of summer.  It was her Mommy' idea.  

 

Penzey's Spices

I'm out of Quebec Beef Spice.  The Fox Point vanished months ago.  People seem to need brownies and cookies in these troublous times; I just opened the last bottle of Madagascar Vanilla, bought on sale before the prices tripled.  It is time to order from Penzeys.

Do you know about Bill Penzey?  A Wisconsin boy, he gre up in the spice trade and followed his family's footsteps.  He writes lengthy posts on Facebook, decrying the state of our country, urging us to come together, reminding us that cooking is love.

I never really got that cooking=love thing.  G'ma was many things, but a good cook was not one of them.. Food was sustenance; I rarely took delight in putting what she made into my mouth.  There were, of course, certain things that I loved; the crust stuck to the bottom of the pan when she made fried chicken comes quickly to mind.  But sitting here, looking at my freshly wiped keyboard (donate one of your precious disinfectant wipes and be amazed at the shiny reflection that gleams beneath your digits), I am hard pressed to come up with another meal that made me happy.  

Rock hard meatballs.  Minute steak cooked to within an inch of its life.  Chicken in a variety of broiled states.  I could always count on a fresh salad and bread or rolls, and I never remember being sad at the table.  I didn't know any better.  

When Rita's mother made me pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse, I was stunned.  Who knew that food could be fun?  For G'ma, cooking was a chore, a necessity, something she did for us but which she'd rather skip entirely.  The only cooking I remember us doing together was when we tried to make an angel food cake.  I inserted the beaters in the electric mixer incorrectly and 12 egg whites went flying all over the kitchen with reckless abandon when we turned it on.  We laughed, spent a loooooong time cleaning, and that was that.

I don't remember when I discovered Penzey's.  It sits on the corner in a low-rent strip mall on Oracle Road, AZ Rte 77, a major north south thoroughfare in Tucson.  I drive past it on my way downtown, on my way to Prince, on my way just about anywhere midtown.  

The salespeople are delightful, engaging, funny, and kind.  No one laughs when I say that I have no idea what to do with marjoram.  They are happy to discuss the relative merits of single or double shot vanilla, of Fox Point vs Sunny Paris (it's the salt), of the best way to roast vegetables.  These are not conversations I have on a regular basis; cooking is still something I view with apprehension.  But Penzey's makes it easy.

There are recipe cards. There's a website.  There are always freebies; today it's 2 jars of cinnamon and a hug coin

They asked for suggestions - organizations that are in need of Hugs - and I sent them a link to Youth on Their Own (imagine trying to couch surf during the pandemic.... as a 15 year old).  It seemed only appropriate.

My favorite Penzey's giveaway is this one, though. 

It's huge, it's as vibrantly colored today as it was when I got it years ago, and the message makes me smile.  I may not be good at it - whether that's healing the world or cooking dinner - but with Penzey's help, I'm trying.

I Had To Laugh

I was signed up for an online Pilates class with one of my favorite teachers, so when TBG wondered when I'd be exercising I replied, with confidence, 11 o'clock.

So, when 11 o'clock rolled around and the email with the class link still had not arrived, I called to inquire.

Oh, we changed that class to 10 o'clock.

Really?  I signed up last night, after dinner, and didn't look back, expecting to be sweating and grunting instead of talking to you on the phone.   Don't worry, I thought it but didn't say it.  

Instead, what came out was this:

But I organized my whole day around this!

And then I laughed.  And so did she.  As if I have anywhere else to be at any particular time these days.  

True, I've been involved in some on-going negotiations, but I'm a volunteer so they can wait until I'm re-engaged. I have groceries to pick up (anytime before 8pm) and spices to pick up (anytime before 7pm) and a letter to mail (walk to the street or drive to the post office.... decisions, decisions, decisions), but I'm totally in charge of when all of that happens.

But I organized my whole day around this!

And, I did.  I dressed for it, I ate when I did in preparation.  I raced through a conversation with the yard guys because of it.  

And all the while, I was energized in a way that I haven't been in a long time.  I had someplace I wanted to be at a specific time. I knew that I'd enjoy it.  I knew that I'd feel better afterwards.  I was looking forward to a novel experience.

And for that, I am very grateful.

(I'm also grateful that she explained where the updated schedule is hiding so that I can have this same feeling next week.)