one bag a day. and some.

four bags today, in fact. of documents going back to the beginning of our marriage, no less.

hoarding, it appears, is a habit that creeps upon the best of us, and very quietly wraps its steely tendrils around us hapless sentimental fools. why else would we still faithfully file the purchase papers for appliances bought five homes ago?

Lord of the stress

for i know the thoughts that i think toward you, says the LORD, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope. 

- jer 29:11

after the mountain-top, the world. we have had incredible privilege.

muddling through inelegantly

a national framework to guide rationing decisions ... may "result in insensitivity to the complexity of clinical care, to the rapidly changing character of medical knowledge, to the uncertainties of the care process, and to the wide range of situations, needs and preferences of patients".

d.j.hunter, bmj 1995 sep 23; 311(7008): 811

with our strong pragmatic bent and deep fondness for algorithms and model answers we would do well to heed this in the little red dot. in healthcare in education in anything perhaps where our first response to a question is what's the guideline on this?

rationing, hunter says, will always be messy. hey, life too. 

fairies and ghosts

what do you say to a nine year old kid who says she doesn't believe in Santa anymore, someone asks. i would say you're right, honey. my friend says it's important to let them believe so they have hope. i say Santa kinda scrapes the bottom of the hope chest.

an old man said, may the God of hope fill you with all joy  and peace in believing... Santa and fairies don't quite cut it.

empty chairs at empty tables

he comes to us on a tuesday, a cheerfully rolling creamy hairball

who happily implants himself into our hearts and our lives

he completely skips chewing, hurries through toilet training

and then stays adolescent for the rest of ten lovely years

sit, stay by the pool in regent park

heavy breathing in the trunk of the car

heavy drooling over the back seats

long, long family walks to the dog park

bunking in with Clifford

earning frequent flyer miles

swimming, and not liking it

finding cover in a thunderstorm

running into glass doors

presiding over every homecoming

the outlet malls at San Antonio

the many different homes

indiscriminate love

unquestioning forgiveness

playmate comforter companion 

he was perfect

in pace

6.19.2002 - 7.21.2012

with not a mean bone in his body.

we were so privileged.

spent

how quickly a dog goes downhill.

he's slipping away.

idiot canine 2

this is what i want to say to Dog, if he only understood:

do you know what we do to human kids who refuse to eat? we let them go hungry, that's what.

clearly the entire family is being terrorized and held emotionally hostage by an entitled picky brat who would be getting his just desserts if he were human.

idiot canine

here's our latest, wildly successful attempt at enticing Dog to condescend to partake of his repast.

we currently have three different flavors of kibbles in the garage which he actually turns his nose up at. what do i say to the vet? i ask HOM. he's refusing his food. that is to say, he gobbles down his treats and wages a war of attrition with me over his meals. is he ill? is he dying?

inflation

90, 98, 105

first class, international

three incarnations in six years.

fond as i am of vintage as a concept

it becomes more painful to support with time.

miss clare (1962) and emily davis (1971) - miss read

miss read is the english version of laura ingalls, only more complex and substantially more satisfying. smashing good reads, that's all i can say.

manic affliction

wondrous thing, jet-lag in some people. which is why the car gets waxed at pre-dawn in our home today. it's contagious too, the lassitude. but not the productivity.

day dreaming

indulging a little, seeing as this is our twelfth home yet and we have a steady diet of advertisements and hgtv offerings to feast on. so here is my ideal home:

• wood floors including in the kitchen,
• bright yellow energy efficient lights,
• washer dryer dishwasher oven microwave,
• well insulated. i don't do au naturel well,
• the type of quiet that drives city folk mad,
• a nice space for the piano, and
• a kick ass white kitchen with stone countertops.

oh, and 2000 sq. ft. tops in an awesome location which i realize makes me sound terribly entitled and ridiculously privileged, but then this here is the ideal list. 

disclosure: i have known close to ideal in my time, and we are thankful.

canine lobbyist

looking at how Dog gobbles up his new brand of kibbles in contrast to the last month of food refusal lethargy and fears of inflammatory bowels and worse, it dawns on me that he was on a hunger strike all this time.

we exchange notes with our new neighbor. his dogs are nine and fifteen. oh good, i say, Dog's ten and we want him to be around longer. keep'em skinny, is his advice. right. bring on your next strike, Dog, and watch the old Science Diet make a comeback.

by sun and candlelight

you must be exhausted looking after dad, i tell my mother during this last draining week. yes, she says, but luckily he is kind and obedient. 

i begin to understand that after fifty years of marriage this is not a comment lightly made or easily earned.

recovery

dad's biopsy is good

Dog's eating his specially-for-picky-dog food

the dent in the piano is repaired

i'm breathin' better.

spent 2

in the past 4 weeks:

all of this, then

unpacking amidst

a 66 hour power outage

in a record setting heat wave

HOM's extended business trip

my dad's hospitalization

Dog's finicky feeding

to boot.

mea gaspa.

Dog days

Dog's off his kibbles for over a month now. he comes and sniffs and ignores, new flavor entreaties commands and hand-feeding notwithstanding. he drinks and he gobbles up treats. he poops and he pees. he is neither yellow nor white nor is he in obvious discomfort. he is his goofy indiscriminately enthusiastic self. he is sweetly protective when i discover a roach. he sleeps a whole lot.

today, he refuses to walk after a block. his puffs sound more labored. he looks almost miserable. i want to hustle him to the vet.

the problem is, because you understand how limited doctors truly are with their speaking patients, you honestly wonder just how much a vet can do with a canine one.

under the tuscan sun - frances mayes (1996)

she writes with a light lyricism that invites you into her world. i am drawn into her whimsical efforts to restore her old villa in tuscany. i love her kitchen - white, with thick marble countertops, sealed brick floor - so much that i try to find pictures of it on the internet. i get hungry reading her descriptions of the fresh produce and effortless meals. the bourgeoisie in me shows after that, i'm afraid. her recipes read disappointingly. gimme the food, not the labor, i want to say. the travelogue part of the book loses me after the excitement of the hgtv part. 

it's a lovely book for a certain reader. a tad slow after a steady diet of murder stories.

village diary - miss read (1957)

every once in a long while one discovers a new enchanted series that hearkens to a cleaner and gentler style that delivers its punches with sneakily ironic wit. even more charming if the series is set in a village in post-WW2 england, that special time suspended between modern brash britain and miss marple's spidery lace-filled era.

the surprising thing is it doesn't read like a dated magazine article, all italics and delicate innuendo. the child today, used as he is to much praise and encouragement, finds it much more difficult to keep going as his task gets progressively long. ... and the negative attitude, in so many homes, of how-much-money-can-i-get-for-how-little-work? does nothing to help them ... unexpectedly current and forthright, i must say. surely enlightenment comes lately? 

what i've always said

my life-long conviction, vindicated in style:

camping is for idiots.

it's over when it's over

the longest power outage i sweat through yet. not even in thailand, i want to tell HOM. even in that backwater land of candles and smiles the blackouts were always more like brownouts. this one was a sixty-six hour whopper. here, before i forget, my gratitude:

• that this is summer and not winter. summer outages are outrageous and sticky but winter outages are worse.
• that my biggest headaches are how to keep comfortable and connected.
• that family and friends surround me with concern and contact and supply.
• that t-mobile, that finicky company with spotty coverage, chooses to keep its coverage intact at my study window throughout the ordeal.
• that it's over.

a daft smile plasters itself across my face every time i pass a draft of cool air from the vents. i can have another shower anytime i want! i can sleep on cool sheets tonight! i can peer into the freezer at long last! 

60 hours and counting

musings from the midst of a massive power outage athwart a heatwave:

• the simple life is a farce. the simplest life is intricately and ornately bound in a finely interlocking grid of electrical cables that holds it as willing chattel babbling on unthinkingly about mother earth.
• when housework is proscribed because there is no light and no power, life isn't all that bad, really. except for the dreadful mugginess, of course. 
• the best time to have a power outage, all things considered, is when everyone else in the household is away on holiday or business. it makes for more logistic efficiencies and it conserves the hot water. 
• i surprise myself every morning when i awaken from yet another night of refreshing, non-climate controlled sleep.