I Have My Books, and My Poetry to Protect Me

How 1985 is this photo? I'm in a trailer with faux wood paneling, I'm listening to a cassette tape, and writing in cursive in a notebook next to an electric typewriter...And I'm wearing Levi's 501 jeans and Chuck Taylors.

Last week was the anniversary of me buying my first house, and I've been thinking about spaces lately, and what it means to be able to create a sanctuary according to my specifications (within my budget, of course).  There is always a certain feel that I want from a room. I like lots of sunlight, and I have this weird hatred of carpet. I have no idea why, but it bugs me. Of course, most of the places I've lived before this house were filled with carpet. So, now I have a house with none.

I like a funky vibe. My brother told me (not unkindly) that he wasn't as into my style. He prefers clean lines, and very little ornamentation. I understand that, but I do like a bohemian kind of look. I don't love tons of clutter, but I want to show off my friends' and my art, I love plants, and I am a BIG fan of festive lights.

 

I know not everyone has the luxury of making a work/creative space exactly for them. After 14 years in this house, and now that my girls are gone, I FINALLY decided to claim part of our spare bedroom as my "work" space. I used to write on my desktop in our living room. It was fine, but it was in the middle of everything and it was hard to focus. In the last few years I bought a laptop, moved my that desktop to the spare bedroom, and a couple of months ago, I bought a real live desk. 

There is room for plants, and books, and most importantly, festive lights. I also don't mind lighting a stinky candle or incense (I guess there's no getting over my catholic upbringing). The good and the bad of all of this, is now I have no excuse NOT to write. That's a lot of pressure, but probably what I need to light a fire under my ass most days.

 Since I'm a moody bitch, creating a mood before I try to make something is really important to me. I like to listen to music. What I choose to listen to depends on what I'm working on. Usually, though, I like it to be pretty mellow. I save the faster, ragier stuff for when I'm cleaning or cooking and/or dancing in my kitchen.

I also try to read something before I start writing. I usually read a short story or two, or some poetry. I am a HUGE fan of the "Best American Short Story" series. I can thumb through it and see which story speaks to me at any given time, or check out the first sentences of stories that I love.

When I was younger, I always had a journal that wrote in, and if I wrote fiction, I would HAVE to write it down first, before I typed it on a type writer or word processor. These days, I'm finally used to just writing everything right on my laptop. Although I do carry an unlined notebook around with me to write down things or observations as I'm thinking about them. Lately, I've been celebrating my oldpeopledness by cracking myself up with things I misread or mishear. For example - private voice as pirate voice, and particularly complimentary as patriarichally complimentary.

So, yes, I'm not that fancy. I have written outside in a notebook, at my kitchen table, at a makeshift desk in my living room, and even (god forbid) in a carpeted bedroom, but since I have the option, I'm really excited to make my creative/work/play space exactly how I want it. I guess we'll see if it inspires me to write more prolifically.

Doctor, My Eyes Have Seen the Years, And The Slow Parade of Fears Without Crying, Now I Want to Understand

 Soooo, it's been quite a month. I've had this ridiculous cold for the last few weeks. I also had my yearly mammogram, which was normal. Whew! Then a week ago I had to get tests to see how my Thyroid Eye Disease was doing. It was going very well, thank you. It looks like my friends bringing over truckloads of Brazil nuts is working. Thanks again, wonderful friends! Of course, staring into bright lights  for a few hours and having a tiny ultrasound wand placed in several spots on my eyeballs was a FABULOUS way to trigger a brutal migraine for me, but it's better than going blind, right?

ANYWHOOOOO, going to the eye doctor turned out to be quite the experience. While I was waiting in the hallway to get my eyeball ultrasounds, a couple of employees came walking up pushing something that was labeled "the sunshine cart". They were blaring "9 to 5" and handing out free snacks. Dolly Parton and free treats? THOSE are the people who should be making billions of dollars, not those evil corporate CEO's who cheat poor people and don't pay their taxes. 

After the Sunshine Cart left to give snacks to other patients, an older couple (older than me, even) looked for chairs to sit together to wait for their next appointment.

"You two can't sit apart from each other? Are you afraid she'll leave you?" Another old guy joked.

"Ha!" The woman said, as her husband sat next to me and she sat on his other side. "It's a little late for that."

"We've been married for 65 years!" Her husband said proudly.

"Wow, " The other old guy said. "I bet she's heard all of your stories..."

"My husband can't hear half the things I say anymore, which probably helps us stay married," I said.

The husband laughed, got very excited, and pulled out his smart phone to show me his hearing aid app and show me all the features, and how he can just turn it down if he's tired of listening to people.

"Boy, I'm surprised you even know how to use one of those phones," the other old guy said. "I can barely work my flip phone, which he pulled out to show us that he wasn't kidding about still having a flip phone.

"That's the only thing he DOES know how to do on his phone," his wife said.

Then a woman came out into the hall and called a name, that of course, none of us could hear. She called it again, and it was me.

"Sorry," I said to her. "We were all just sitting there talking about being deaf. The woman laughed and said,

"Yeah. We have a different clinic for that..."

Walking By Myself, Down Avenues That Reek of Time to Kill

 Okay. So, I was late for work a few weeks ago. The thing is, I originally had plenty of time, so in my addled brain I thought I could just water a few plants in our front yard. You know...Because the drought and all. After I did that, I still had a couple of minutes, so I figured I'd just run across the street to my plot at the Community Gardens and only water the tomatoes and my pepper plants. It was almost the end of the season, and those were really the only things producing much.

Anyway, I got over there and saw that there were some ripe tomatoes. I knew I should wait to pick those until after work, but I have this impulse control thing wrong with me, so I decided it would only be a minute more to pick those. On my way to the spigot for the water, I was amazed to see that there were quite a few green beans that could stand to be picked. Huh? I thought they were done. I was running out of time, so those could REALLY wait to be picked until after I got home from work. I want us all to stop here and admire my restraint. At least for a minute.

I watered the tomatoes, and while I was watering the peppers, this very sweet young man (he could probably be anywhere from 15 to 40 years old, but everyone looks young to me) came over with a root vegetable in his hand. "Hi," he said. "Hey, do you know what this is? I thought I just planted mustard greens, but then this came up and I'm not sure what it is." 

"Hmmmm. It looks like it could either be a malformed turnip or one of those weird white radishes. What are they called?... Oh yeah, Daikons! I wonder if there's some kind of vegetable identifying app you can get on your phone, like the plant ones?" 

He said he figured there was one. Then he told me this was his last day in the gardens. He had to nanny for some kids and wouldn't be back before we all had to be out for Winter. He also told me to help myself to any of the mustard greens he had left in his plot. Which was very kind.

Shit! Now I was actually late. I stared hard at the green beans, couldn't stand it, and said, fuck it. I was  going to take the time to pick them anyway.

I gathered up the tomatoes, green beans, and my watering can and juggled them all the way home. Of course, once I put everything down on the counter, I realized that I got weird dirt/vegetable puke stains on my shirt and had to change it. So, I grabbed a light gray shirt out of my clean clothes hamper (I hear some people actually fold their clothes and put them in their dressers. It sounds quaint). I looked down and realized I was wearing a brighter pink bra that showed through my shirt. If I had been in my twenties, I may have just gone with it, but being 58, it felt a little unseemly for the office. So, I dug through said hamper again until I found a darker shirt and put that on. Amazingly, it wasn't backwards or inside out. I searched around for a bit before I found my gloves, grabbed my messenger bag, hopped on my bike and headed to work. I was about halfway there before I realized I had forgotten to wear my helmet. I thought about turning around, but reasoned that I rode my bike without a helmet for close to 40 years before I started wearing one, so this one day probably wasn't going to kill me. I know, I know. I fully expected to slip on a banana peel left in the street, crash my bike, and bleed out through my temple  five seconds after that.

Amazingly, I made it to work only five minutes late. It wasn't even worth trying to explain to my boss why I was late. He's a busy man, and I'm sure he didn't even notice. Also, he's met me before and would probably be MORE surprised if I started getting to work early every day.