House and garden:
Garden
Errands
Lisaism
Reading:
Exercise
Bike 8.3 miles in three legs; stairmill 15' @ 68 steps per minute; swim 1000 meters.
Blending theories of historiography with alternative history with an historical novel, José Saramago continues to astonish and allure me.
Such gorgeous weather. We took the kayaks to Chatfield reservoir and paddled. I am going to learn to dismount and reënter my kayak without flipping it. This time when I wanted to swim in the middle of the "lake," I gave my skirt, sunglasses, and hat to RDC instead of putting them in my drysack (whatever that's called) and lashing it down, and shoved my paddle into what rigging there is--it's not rigging at all, but tie-downs--and he held Watership Up as I existed and clambered back in. I am definitely going to practice this one, because I am totally taking this vessel with me when I next go home.
South City Park is a fine neighborhood, dog- and garden-wise, but it has its fair share of crime. I am more concerned with property crime (because it can affect me me me) than with the selling sex or drugs, but I am hardly blind to the facts that illegal activity--whether or not it should be illegal--dims the tone of the neighborhood and makes people fearful, and that drug trade increases property crime. Smoking your homegrown pot is one thing; buying meth and crack another.
So last night was a neighborhood meeting with police officers and city council members and RTD representatives and neighborhood residents and business owners, so many of us that we spilled out of the coffeeshop and hijacked the art gallery a few storefronts along. I volunteered to take notes more for my own peace of mind (my notes wouldn't spread grammatical errors) than out of generosity.
One hotel, with a bus stop out front, is the crime nexus, but everyone was aware that if the hotel became a veritable buttercup, the crime would only move into the alleys. People vented about cops harassing those who report panderers (report the badge number and behavior), and all taking breaks simultaneously such that more deals are done during their lunches at the café than at other times (the commander said they're not supposed to do that); and being distracted by a patrol car's windowful of bosom while two deals were done in plain sight half a block away.
It was a good meeting, and gave me a few ideas about neighborhood involvement. Also about the fact that apparently I live in the boring end of my neighborhood.
I'm still quizzing myself on capitals of the world. I tell myself it is unkind to dismiss the Carribean and Oceania as too puny to matter. I mean, the Greater Antilles are not so puny, and Charlotte Amalie is a lovely name even though I would say the actual capital of the U.S. Virgin Islands is Washington, D.C., and Dominica is easy to remember because it's the only island left with any native population, thanks Columbus, but Nauru, Palau, Tonga, Tuvalu, and Vanuatu have done nothing to distinguish themselves to me and they all sound alike.
It's the sound alike problem I have with Africa. I went through the list and noted the mnemonic I use for each country, and the capitals left are all too similar. The game I learn from is matching, which is good for my level because although I recognize Antananarivo as the capital of Madagascar when I see it, I couldn't fill in a blank with it. But the give-away of matching leaves me with three-syllable words that seem alien to me except that they're familiar to each other:
Equatorial Guinea : Malabo
Mali : Bamako
Uganda : Kampala
There is no reason for me not to know the capital of Uganda: Idi Amin happened in my lifetime. But it hasn't stuck in my head yet. Most of the other capitals have, though many only to the point of recognition:
Algeria, Algiers; obvious
Angola, Luanda; Angola borders Zambia to the left, as Luanda comes alphabetically left of Lusaka
Benin, Porto-Novo; known from Egg's trip
Botswana, Gaborone; Gabon-like
Burkina Faso, Ouagadougou; long and complicated like neighbor Ivory Coast
Burundi, Bujumbura; alliterative
Cameroon, Yaoundé; oon, aoun
Cape Verde, Praia; pretty islands, pretty name
Central African Republic, Bangui; alphabetically before Gambia; as is deceptively similar Bangui
Comoros, Moroni; LDS' homeland
Congo, DRC, Kinshasa; known from history
Eritrea, Asmara; sounds geographically appropriate
Ethiopia, Addis Ababa; known because has always been favorite country name
Gabon, Libreville; annoying, because distant from Sierra Leone and Liberia and from Botswana
Gambia, Banjul; alphabetically after CAR; as is deceptively similar Banjul
Ghana, Accra; alphabetically before other g-n Guinea; so is "akr" Accra
Guinea, Conakry; alphabetically after g-n Ghana; so is "akr" Conakry
Guinea-Bissau, Bissau; obvious
Ivory Coast, Yamoussoukro; long and complicated like neighbor Burkina Faso; also given as Abidjan, which erratically east African.
Kenya, Nairobi; known because has always been favorite country name
Lesotho, Maseru; geographically near Mozembique therefore both Ms; vowels in alpha order, therefore before Mozambique; begins with m, like obviously southern african Mbabane in Swaziland which is between Lesotho and Mozambique
Liberia, Monrovia; known from U.S. history
Libya, Tripoli; known from living history
Madagascar, Antananarivo; both long
Malawi, Lilongwe; long country, long in word
Mauritania, Nouakchott; sounds geographically appropriate
Mauritius, Port Louis; island therefore port
Morocco, Rabat; known from history
Mozambique, Maputo; geographically near Lesotho therefore both Ms; u comes after e therefore after Lesotho; begins with m, like obviously southern african Mbabane in Swaziland which is between Lesotho and Mozambique
Namibia, Windhoek; sounds geographically appropriate
Niger, Niamey; known because of Nisou's sister's Peace Corps work
Nigeria, Abuja; only one of the 10 most populous countries in the world: no reason to remember its capital
Republic of the Congo, Brazzaville; known
Rwanda, Kigali; known from Hotel Rwanda
Sao Tome and Principe, Sao Tomé; obvious
Senegal, Dakar; known from UConn Senegalese community
Seychelles, Port Victoria; island therefore port
Sierra Leone, Freetown; similar (reason for) name as Liberia
Somalia, Mogadishu; known from living history
South Africa, Pretoria; known from living history
Sudan, Khartoum; known from living history
Swaziland, Mbabane; sounds southern African
Tanzania, Dar Es Salaam; sounds like 1001 nights
Togo, Lomé; known from Egg's trip
Tunisia, Tunis; obvious
Zambia, Lusaka; Zambia borders Angola to the right, as Lusaka follows to the right of Luanda alphabetically
Zimbabwe, Harare; Nancy Farmer
I know Central and South America cold and most of Europe. I never remember Moldova and I sometimes swap the Baltic states. Matching might help me memorize Asia eventually, but Brunei still has not justified why the longass capital, and several -stans trip me up.
One 3.6-mile city ride on Friday. Rain absolutely bucketed down when RDC picked me up at four.
Today Kal gave me a ride in and I biked the other half. Very tidy.
I love how John Leonard's mixes not just metaphors but established words, like bewilderness.
Also I am wildly envious of the circles his mind has earned him a place in, and how he helps me love Toni Morrison and Salman Rushdie and Barbara Kingsolver more, and how mercilessly he thrashes Bowling Alone and a not-much-of-a-biography of Eugene Debs.
When I walked through the backyard this morning, my feet were wet with dew, of all things. Goodness me, that doesn't happen often. The mild, moist weather is over, for now; forecasts predict highs in the 90s. I was hoping the low 80s would last through my mother's visit, because while the altitude alone might subdue her, blistering heat will flatten her.
Last night the neighborhood bookgroup minus one assembled at Scarf's to work on a baby gift for the absent one. I have decided that this is a good concept and I am going to repeat it for other babies whom (or whose parents) I know better. So what I worked on is a draft. Possibly it's a draft of itself, because it didn't turn out as well as I hoped, but since I doubt I'll have time to redo it before Final Assembly next week, I think it's just a draft for other babies. I'm being obscure because one recipient reads this. Hi Haitch!
Yesterday morning as we couldn't get out of bed, RDC offered me the car. What happened to that person who was never late to work? I think she went away with the person who worked downtown. The car made me less late, and I seized the carton of styrofoam beads that's got fuller and fuller since December and hied myself to work. During the day Kal told me that her bike had arrived--it was shipped to the office--and I offered to bring it home in Cassidy since she doesn't have a hatchback. So except for the bit at the end of the day when I moved the carton from the hatch to the front seat and lost a score of evil popcorn bits to the wind, I was An Efficient Car User.
With the bike in its box in the back and the carton in the front, I drove to the nearest UPS store that takes back styrofoam. That carton has been in the sunroom making me feel guilty for months. I hate that shit. And now it's gone. Wheee!
At home, I worked on my other Secret Project, which is only secret until I get after pictures, and it's been on the to-do list for months so it's really not secret, and now it's almost done, which will be Just in Time. Kal walked over (to admire the SP) before we went to Scarf's and afterward I drove her and the bike home, and how tidy is that?
Her cat was intrigued with the box. Nearly bike-long and -high but not very deep, the box had "access holes," which is what they're calling those four-finger-width holes in boxes spaced exactly to place your hands for carrying, instead of "handles," because if a "handle" tears and the box drops, the box company can be sued, whereas if an "access hole" tears, what were you doing using it as a handle? Or something. The cat sniffed at the holes, which might have smelled like Minnesota or at least like Other, and the box swayed on its long depth. We lay it flat on the floor, because no one wants to wake up at three in the morning to a bike in a box falling to sprain a kitty's tail.
Doing the SP has got me through a lot of Brothers Karamazov in audio. RDC is now listening to Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman! and I should listen to more non-fiction myself. Though that I read in high school.
Beginning and During.
Ow. I used my new tool, which I want to call a mattock because that's a cool word that distinguishes the thing from "garden trowel" though unfortunately is incorrect, to dig out the grass in the north easement to place "stones," and in the south easement to dig out the fragments of flagstones I had previously used as a border. I guess I grip with my index and middle fingers the most, because I wound up with a blister on the ring side of my middle finger. For best gription, I used gloves to place the stones--prefab, concretey foot-squares—along the curb in both easements. Then I started stripping a table, and the taut blister popped (without my help this time, I promise) perhaps when mineral spirits dried out the skin just enough, and yowza, that hurt. So of course I trimmed all the dead skin away, because it could not protect the bed of the blister, and I am continuing to work with my hands, continuing with alcohol, so I have acquired as well a few slits in the exposed blister bed. Yum.
On the other hand, I did get a large mailing out with only one paper cut across the knuckle of my left pinky, and without aggravating the post-blister much.
The stripping is going okay, I guess. I have never used chemicals to strip finish before and the only time I have stripped (began to strip) a piece of furniture at all, I was a child and used sandpaper and gave up and to this day in my mother's house there is a bed table none of whose surfaces are protected by finish--except that of the face of the drawer--and have not been for 25 years.
Whoever last worked with this table had no taste. It is stained so dark it might as well have been painted black. The citrus-y chemical worked really well to lift most of that out. There are two half-oval flaps, a top a foot across, a drawer, and the legs. The flaps and top are fine. In fact they're lovely. I still don't know what kind of wood they are, but when wet--can you say wet when it's not water?--with mineral spirits, the color is lovely. The finish I cannot get out (three applications of stripper so far) I am calling "grain enhancements." The legs, though, the legs make me very sad. There are six fixed and two that rotate 90 degrees each to hold up a flap. The eight legs and attendant railings are turned, or look like it, so have waists and fatter bits and narrower bits and rings and they are not my favorites. The fattest part of any round section shed its finish fairly well, but the narrow waists and in-curvings that expose more grain, not so much. And they take so damn long, painting the chemical on, scrubbing and rubbing it out.
I am using up so many rags on this endeavor. The entire under-utility-sink cabinet in the laundry room was a pile of rags--clean, so hopefully no more a fire nest than a closet full of clothes--that I was going to, get this, fold before my mother's visit. (I folded the painting dropcloths tidily into a box in the coal cellar, instead of just heaping them on the floor.) Now I don't have to because I doubt they can come clean. It seems a pity to destroy RDC's worn to shreds "This is your brain on Rasta" t-shirt for this, but so it goes. Also we've been getting the Denver Post, no idea why, for the past several weeks, free to the door, but since The Chronicle of Higher Education is exactly the size of Blake's cage floor, I don't need the local rag. But whatever doesn't get recycled gets stripper with dissolved finish dripped on it.
After
The Saga of the Table began before my involvement. My mother had it from one of her grandmothers, I think the paternal one. When my sister moved to Boston, she was allowed to use it there but returned it before she moved to Aspen, though whether by my mother's request or my sister's choice I don't know.
What I do know is that when RDC and I moved in together, my mother lent us a lamp. She was careful to say it was a loan, and it was a lamp from my sister's abandoned bedroom that she surely did not miss in the 2.5 years we had it. I returned it before we moved to Denver because I wasn't going to bring a loan across the country. I was careful to return my mother's loan because even her gifts have been chancy: she suggested that the heirloom china she gave me at my bridal shower should not go with me to Denver, and if a gift was that susceptible to her whim and regret, then a loan was even more so.
I told how the thing came to be in my possession here, and how my mother first began to hint of its return here, and how when we bought a house with a dining room and acquired a dining table of suitable size and retired the two-person, dropleaf gateleg table, she was offended. Further gibes occurred when she looked at photographs of the house and later when I told her about the house falling over into a swamp: when I told her about the disintegrating concrete and support posts and lolly columns, she asked, "And where is the gateleg table in all of this?" I bitched to my sister about that selfish insensitivity, and I should have bitched to the transgressor, because CLH put herself (did I hint that I wanted her to do this? I hope not) in the middle by telling our mother how inappropriate a question about a single piece of furniture is in the context of the structural integrity of an entire house. She reportedly replied, "But I wanted her to know I was concerned about my table!" to which my sister reasonably replied, "She would have appreciated your having some concern for her house" without adding "especially on her birthday" or bickering about the possessive pronoun.
The table was stained very dark. I don't like dark colors except black in dogs and dark brown in eyes. I like wood grain. So I stripped the thing and finished it clear.
The table is handsome now. The leaves and top glow with mahogany--when I brought the top to a woodworking store, they identified it as such. Its turned legs were a bitch to strip--I discovered sanding floss, a wonderful invention--and where the shape cuts across grain, some stain remains, and that's true of the edges of the leaves and top too (but as with an old refinished floor, I'm calling that "character"). Also, a page about Victrolas makes me think that the top might be of red mahogany and the legs of brown, because they do look quite different.
Attractive or not, its legs are still turned, and therefore dustcatchers, and it's still an occasional table, though for what occasions I'm not sure. Now that I know how easy it is to dismantle, I might declare the project's aim not merely to improve the appearance of a piece whose purpose eludes me and whose design fails to thrill me but to furnish my sister's new house. But I will check whether my sister would consider the table merely a mathom. If I didn't find an occasion for it in my house, I can't assume she would.
Whew. After next weekend, my summer is unencumbered. I have planned jaunts to San Francisco and Seattle then farther, both for pleasure though the latter follows being run roughshod at the Big Top, but other than that, two months of freedom. Does one run roughshod over the victim, or does the victim run roughshod? Merriam-Webster is not helpful. Its first definition is to be shod in calk shoes and its second is "marked by main force without consideration or justice." I expect that it is difficult, painful, or even injurious for a horse to run in calked shoes, so to be driven roughshod might be to be crippled.
How anyone is shod, run, or crippled at the Big Top occurs to me today because I wore slingbacks and ow. Last summer I happily wore them traveling and to a rehearsal dinner but I think with talcum powder. Today the half-mile round-trip to the grocery store for my lunch was unpleasant. So I don't think I will wear them with my shell-pink suit (knee-length skirt) or butter-yellow sheath or khaki (knee-length shorts) suit to the Big Top, except I will try again with talcum powder and see if that helps enough. I have to have sensible shoes because I will be doing a lot of trotting and galloping and wanting to dig just a small hole and hoping no one boots me in the elbow for it.
That's it, the theme of my literary allusions for the Big Top this year will be horses, as long as I don't have to think too much of that one illustration in King of the Wind that gave me nightmares. Perhaps I should stick with Robin McKinley.
I began by saying that after next weekend my summer's obligations are over. I've been working in the garden fairly regularly since spring; we've done house-y things like replace the porch carpet and refinish a table and purge all the crap tossed into storage areas without a second glance; for the past two weekends I've cleaned; and this weekend my mother and her husband are visiting. But after that, as long as I water the tomatoes and weed, that's it.
The mild weather gave way to heat late last week and for the first part of this week highs are forecast in the mid 90s, but the later part of the week might reach only the high 80s and that would be good. I hope my mother can manage. Lots of sitting still in the shade, a glass of iced tea, a book. She should be fine.
We broke late on Saturday afternoon and went to the pool. RDC swam a k in the indoor pool and lay out and I sat immersed to my sternum on the steps of the thoroughly occupied outdoor one with The Razor's Edge for a blissful hour.
In July I might see PLT and his two daughters, but not their mother because she will be away. I have never met the younger, who is 4 (does seeing her mother before she announced the Impending Sprout count?) and the older is 8, so that should be fun. Also a ex-coworker of RDC's. It's weird to say "PLT and S" but not mean PLT and our own dear SEM, whose name is a homophone but not a homograph for this coworker. In August I go to the Pacific Northwest. I have been anticipating the mother-visit for weeks if not months, and it will be over with two months of summer to go. The plan is to kayak one day a weekend and spend the other by the pool. And read. Truly, my life is a difficult one.
Complex and subtle. Can there be a crime beyond the bounds of God's love? Can morality exist without God? How can a just God allow the innocent to suffer? (That ties in with The Razor's Edge.) How much does suffering affect your goodness?
Thank goodness for Sparknotes and a Dartmouth page about reading it. Without those questions to structure my reading, which was mostly listening, I would have been even more befuddled. Sparknotes alleges that Katya suffers to draw attention to the wrongs of others who make her suffer. I inferred self-sacrifice and even martyrdom, but not that motivation. Agrafena is unloveable, but so is Dmitri, so maybe they do belong together. But I don't understand about Lise and Alexei.
While I have a shadow of a hope of reading a regular European language and do not feel guilty in the slightest for not reading any Asian one, Russian occupies the middle ground of my never being able to read it even though I once made an attempt. So as most often happens with Russian translations, how the rendering into English happened intrigued me most.
How should one choose among the following translations?
Pevear and Volokhonsky, Vintage Classics
There's just one thing: how can I make a compact with the earth evermore? I don't kiss the earth, I don't tear open her bosom; what should I do, become a peasant or a shepherd? I keep going, and I don't know: have I gotten into stench and shame, or into light and joy? That's the whole trouble, because everything on earth is a riddle. And whenever I happened to sink into the deepest, the very deepest shame of depravity (and that's all I ever happened to do), I always read that poem about Ceres and man. Did it set me right? Never! Because I'm a Karamazov. Because when I fall into the abyss, I go straight into it, head down and heels up, and I'm even pleased that I'm falling in just such a humiliating position, and for me I find it beautiful. And so in that very shame I suddenly begin a hymn. Let me be cursed, let me be base and vile, but let me also kiss the hem of that garment in which my God is clothed; let me be following the devil at the same time, but still I am also your son, Lord, and I love you, and I feel a joy without which the world cannot stand and be.
Constance Garnett
But the difficulty is how am I to cling forever to Mother Earth. I don't kiss her. I don't cleave to her bosom. Am I to become a peasant or a shepherd? I go on and I don't know whether I'm going to shame or to light and joy. That's the trouble, for everything in the world is a riddle! And whenever I've happened to sink into the vilest degradation (and it's always been happening) I always read that poem about Ceres and man. Has it reformed me? Never! For I'm a Karamazov. For when I do leap into the pit, I go headlong with my heels up, and am pleased to be falling in that degrading attitude, and pride myself upon it. And in the very depths of that degradation I begin a hymn of praise. Let me be accursed. Let me be vile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is shrouded. Though I may be following the devil, I am Thy son, O Lord, and I love Thee, and I feel the joy without which the world cannot stand.
Andrew H. MacAndrew, Bantam Classic
But what makes it hard for me is that I don't know how I could possibly enter that eternal alliance with Mother Earth. I don't kiss Mother Earth, I don't plow her soil... Should I, then, become a peasant, a shepherd, or what? I go on and on, and I don't know where I'll find myself next - in stench and disgrace or in light and joy. And that's where the main trouble likes: everything in this world is a puzzle. Whenever I've sunk into the deepest shame and depravity - and that has happened to me more often than anything else - I've always recited that poem about the goddess Ceres and man's fate. But has it reformed me? No - because I'm a Karamazov, because if I must plunge into the abyss, I'll go head first, feet in air. I'll even find a certain pleasure in falling in such a humiliating way. I'll even think that it's a beautiful exit for a man like me. And so, in the very midst of degradation, I am low and despicable. I must still be allowed to kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is shrouded; and even if I may be following in the devil's footsteps, I am still Your son, O Lord, and I love You, and fell the joy without which the world cannot be.
David McDuff, Penguin
But the only thing is, how am I join eternal union with the earth? I don't kiss the earth, I don't churn up her breast: What am I to do, become a muzhik or a shepherd? I go and know not whether I have landed in foulness and ignominy or in light and joy. I mean, that's where the trouble lies, for all the world is an enigma! And whenever I've had occasion to wallow in the very deep ignominy of lus (and that's all I've had occasion to do), I've always read that poem about Ceres and man. Has it set me on the right road again? Never! Because I'm a Karamazov. Because if I throw myself into the abyss I do it straight, head first and heels last, and am even glad that I've fallen in such a degrading posture and consider it flattering to myself. And it's there, in that very ignominy, that I suddenly begin the hymn. I may be cursed, I may be base and vile, but I too shall kiss the hem of the robe in which my God enwraps Himself; Even though at the very same time I may still be following the Devil, I am Your son, O Lord, and I love You, and sense the joy without which the world cannot stand and be.
Bike 8.3 miles. Swim 1000 meters.
I intended 2000. The fellow in the next lane said he was getting his laps in before the storm, and I looked to the west and northwest since that's whither most of the weather comes, but he was looking south. The southern sky was pretty dark, and it occurred to me that last night's storm was from the south: we had had to close the dining room windows instead of the bedroom.
Just to seal my fate--I first typed fail, as in failure, though I was also thinking of bail--I swam the next length after the first k in butterfly. My lungs were going to surge out of my chest by the last meters because I have no pulmonary capacity, and I flipped to my back and didn't even swim but reached over my head for the rope, pulled until my hand was by my thigh, and so towed myself until, about halfway back, I bothered to add some desultory kicks.
The rain started as soon as I got home, so I chose to believe my bailing was prudence instead of laziness.
Unless I misremember the experience of reading Of Human Bondage, W. Somerset Maugham should have written this and then stopped.
Two 3.6-mile city rides, plus.
The plus got me to the salon, but my cutter was running 20' late. Ordinarily this wouldn't be an issue, but I couldn't wait because I was expecting my mother, and we couldn't reschedule because, surprise, she's moving to San Francisco. Waaah.
The extra tad of biking got me to the Botanic Gardens. I had said between 12:30 and 1, I know I did, and they had been waiting since 12:20. I was allowed to stow my bike in the back of their truck, since the plan was to go see their campground afterward, and I changed from bike shorts back into linen in the triangle of the truck's cab door. My mother laughed, with only some embarrassment: she is used to my having no bodily modesty and it wasn't a crowded parking lot and Usans have such stupid hang-ups.
A reason I wanted to get my hair cut just before she arrived showed itself here: walking back from the truck to the entrance where BDL waited, I pulled the elastic out of my hair, and in the three seconds of its freedom between hasty biking ponytail and folded twist under my beloved clip, she said of it, "Your hair looks nice." I didn't know how to respond to that, because it didn't. Immediately after shaking my hair out, I look like Cousin It, though now with shoulder- rather than waist- (or ankle-, as on It [I was going to make It possessive but both options, Its and It's, made me squirm]). She wanted to say something nice about my hair--I expect my sister briefed her--and the best I could do was not laugh at her carefully impossible timing.
The Botanic Gardens went over well, I think. We rested on shady benches and drank a lot of water and, thank goodness, the sky clouded over, a breeze picking up meanwhile. Some plants had additional information tied to the Lewis & Clark exhibit, and that went over well. There was only one duckling.
Swim 1000 meters, in the morning, before the three of us went to the Museum of Nature and Science.
On Saturday my mother's first cousin and her husband came to Denver from Wyoming. Cousin brought photographs and I produced the one of my mother at 4, which hangs right next to the wedding collage she spotted on my wall, which led to the wedding video (apropos, because Friday was our 10th anniversary), which led to the wedding album, which led, as a reward for looking at all that (she said she wanted to! and my mother had never seen either album or video), to my showing them the Glamour Shots, which remain as hideous as I remember.
Was it years of baggage with my mother or a real difference between them that made Cousin's similar generational tics easier to accept or volley than my mother's? The men--my stepfather BDL, the cousin's husband, and RDC--conversed, but Cousband better with either than BDL and RDC with each other. RDC and Cousband could talk about travel and fly-fishing and current events like eminent domain, and Cousband and BDL could discuss the Way Things Used to Be, but, RDC reported and I can easily believe, when Cousband and RDC spoke of something not of immediate interest to BDL, he would begin to make puerile jokes. BDL's idea of a current event was whether the young blonde woman who disappeared in Aruba (where darker skinned people live) had been found yet.
Overall the whole visit was fine. I could feel my mother restraining herself and I know I restrained myself. About the table she said that I did not do a good job, but it's my table to do with as I want, "or at least so you always say." I did not point out that I have asserted my ownership only once, when she wanted it back during its tenure as my dining table.
I had made reservations at a neighborhood restaurant on Friday night, asking for the patio please because it was our tenth wedding anniversary. After we placed our drink orders, our server told us that another table was treating us to an appetizer for our anniversary, and when we looked over to that table it was Scarf and Drums. I asked the server to give them a round of drinks in return, and I am really pleased that the Happy Couple did not protest: I did not know, when I made that request, that the HC had told RDC before we left the house that dinner would be their treat.
They had already met Scarf and Drums the night they arrived. I needed to deliver my contribution to the baby gift to Scarf and asked my mother to come with me to meet some of my neighborhood friends, since they live just around the corner, and RDC suggested we all go and stroll through the park afterward. Hanging out on Scarf's porch were she and Drums and some other bookgroup people and another neighbor I hadn't met before. There were introductions and a little chat and we walked on, very slowly even though my mother said neither the altitude nor her foot troubled her. BDL teased her for walking with her hands in her trouser pockets. His teasing was about how her hands couldn't quickly balance any stumble or break any fall; I said nothing because it always has looked an uncomfortable physical pose and to me belies emotional discomfort as well.
Also we met another bookgroup member and her husband, walking their three dogs and carrying a cat! in a cat-carrier! like a baby-carrier! I totally have to get that for my sister. Despite the wonderful view of Denver from behind the museum, and the wonderful rose bushes that are remnants of the first planting of the Botanic Gardens before it occupied its current space, and the lake at sunset with geese and goslings, my mother kept asking where we were going and why. I had asked her about altitude and her foot (she had a bone spur a few years ago) to know whether a walk would be okay, and we covered less than a half mile altogether, but she doesn't use anything but a car for transportation so this was pointless to her.
Back on the hospitality front, I had also made reservations for tea at the Brown Palace. Granted this is a Girl thing and it best follows a tour of the Molly Brown House, but I could do nothing else with BDL than bring him. I should have told them that tea is a meal and not assumed that that was obvious by my saying "I made a reservation for tea" instead of "we're going out for a cup of tea." Also I should not have assumed that their being in the city would have altered their wardrobe. BDL wore a promotional t-shirt, but at least he took off his cap when he went indoors. I should have asked the restaurant to mask the prices on the menus, or clarified that this was my treat because she asked the server how much was just a cup of tea. At that point I said it was a meal, not a drink, and it was a special occasion kind of treat, and my treat to boot. The same thing happened with the Pike's Peak train. I told them that I expected to pay for all the reservations I made, and please try to accept hospitatlity as the gift it is instead of as a burden or debt.
She seemed to like the house, which made me happy. There was no snapping on either side and criticism only of the masked sort that she seems no more able to rein in than I can stop my eye-rolling. I am not sure she liked RDC's cooking, protesting that we shouldn't take any trouble, instead of accepting that we were making an effort for our guests' pleasure, not for their guilt, in order that they should enjoy good food, a scrupulously clean house, flowers, and having their tea and coffee refilled chairside with the morning paper.
They both liked Blake at first, but on the strength of his initial curiosity about them, they both later overstepped his boundaries and tried to pick him up or pet him when he was deep in a preen, was eating, or otherwise would have appreciated some notice before a strange hand invaded his space and person. He bared his beak at them, indicating pretty clearly to leave him alone, but they didn't pay attention to my telling them as well to back off, and continued attempts occasionally got them beaked, at which point they decided he is spoiled. Which he is, but not because he fends off unwanted mauling.
The house and Blake, maybe; Denver, not so much. Denver, especially Colfax Avenue, made my mother's teeth itch. She kept finding ticks that would turn out to be a flake of scab or bit of dirt, and would not just take my word that Denver has no deer ticks, and what ticks Colorado has are in the mountains or at most the foothills. Also she identified a plant in my neighbor's easement as poison ivy, when Colorado doesn't have any anyway and my neighbor is a scrupulous gardener.
Swim 1000 meters.
I drove today, giving Kal a ride to work and afterward to the car shop. RDC had said he needed to drive, to go to CostCo for several things, among them minoxidyl. I said I sure would like the car, because if there's anything in the world I owe Kal it's a ride to work, and he might look in the downstairs bath for his medication.
And then I swam.
Today was Intern's birthday and his two-year anniversary at Dot Org. Lou, whose birthday was last and therefore did this next, brought in ice cream bars. Also, Kal and I went out for a celebratory lunch and had milkshakes. In the evening, RDC and I ate on the patio at the Del Mar Fish House on Larimer and finished with gelato that we ate by the creek. A three-ice cream day. Urk. Splat. Also yum.
The evening sky over Denver shimmered with pink and gold. I hung my head over the back of my chair, looking up, and the server asked if I was looking at the building, which has a classic Old West brick façade. "Nah," said I. "I've seen the building. I'm looking at the sky."
The kind of day you shouldn't have too often. Egg visited Dot Org today on her way to a long weekend in the mountains, as she did last year; as happened last year, Dot Org happened to have a cookout on that day. My department finally took its turn, and instead of the burgers that every other department has done, we did fajitas, and had a casual salsa and guacamole competition. (There is a more structured chili cookoff on Hallowe'en.) Everyone said it was the best lunch Dot Org had ever had, and that we had raised the bar. A great part of the day for me was Egg's visit. As she and Intern and I chopped peppers and onions and sliced skirt steak (and the chicken that Tex reluctantly allowed despite its not being authentic*), she told us about her recent volunteer vacation in Thailand, a week of post-tsunami assistance and a week at an elephant sanctuary.
We hugged hugely downstairs, and when I was ready to let go she hugged me harder and longer, which was fine by me. I am a fan of the long squeezy hug. We trotted upstairs saying hi! Hi! HI! and how are the dogs? and how is Blake? and as we reached our floor she asked and how are you. I socked her lightly on the arm and bounced: "As of Tuesday, I am a research analyst!" She cried, "Get out!" and flung her arms around me again. (That's what the celebratory lunch was about yesterday, my promotion (and raise! wheee!)) Later, after everyone had helped themselves and now we could serve ourselves, she and Intern and I, with Kal and another Orgerista to my left, sat on the parapet around the patio, soaking up the sun and talking and talking and laughing and laughing. Egg asked about the promotion, and I told her about that, and, since she has mother-issues as well, that my mother had just visited and it went fine, and there was Kal now, and RDC and I had just had our tenth anniversary. "And I'm proofreading the magazine!" Unfortunately this came about by the death of an editor emeritus and the health-related resignation of another, but after an error of antecedent that had one of our articles implying that a state killed an individual, I'm glad to be on board. And Egg is a terrific cheerleader. She sounds like Willie Wonka. "That's fantastic! That is fabulous! That is so amazing!" Her happiness for me was thorough, her praise so very worth having, that I got all happified about these things again, plus I was so glad to see her, and enjoying being comfortable among my coworkers, that I got fairly giddy. I asked to be slapped around a little and brought back to earth, but Egg said I deserved a little giddiness.
I had remembered to bring my camera, so I took pictures of Egg and Intern and Kal and Tex and a few other Dot Orgeristas. Plus I flung the thing into someone's hand to have pictures of me with Egg and Intern and with Kal.
Later in the day, as Egg was leaving, Trey called. I hadn't heard from her in six months, since Yule cards, just before which she left the organization she left for Dot Org in 2000 and then returned to in 2002. Her husband is still with NCSL and reachable, so earlier this week I emailed him asking to be sent on to his lovely wife because I had gossip. Now she called, and my greeting her happened alongside my hugging Egg goodbye, and Trey squeaked, "Egg's there?" The really groovy thing about this is that I was happy to talk to them, who now live Elsewhere and Away, without getting all miserably mopey about the past and Change Is Bad. And that is why I want to stay on Lexapro. Maybe it's cognitive therapy, or psychodynamic therapy, that has enabled me to function in the now without looking over my shoulder so much, but I am certain the drug affects me in good ways.
Trey has encouraged me to do More and Other nearly since I've known her, and I knew she would be happy to know I am Off the administrative track and On the research track. Plus I got to hear about her new job, which she loves and finds wonderfully challenging. Also I told her, woe am I, that the haircutter she found and converted me, Nebra, and Haitch to moved to San Francisco. (Damn, I'm the only one left in Denver.) Plus about Haitch's podling.
In the evening was The Razor's Edge with the older bookgroup. Even the one person who thought Maugham's writing was pretentious found the book eminently readable. Several people thought several of the characters were unlikeable, but everyone thought Maugham wrote about them with affection. I brought up The Corrections, which I just reread, as an example of much less likeable people (I didn't find anyone exceptionally objectionable in Edge), whom, some readers say, the author despises too. And I have to commend Maugham for saying no he wasn't there but this is how this conversation could have gone, whereas Dostoevsky--merely following the literary convention of his time but one I dislike--used an omniscient narrator despite that narrator being a resident in the town.
* Faja means "belt" and "fajita" therefore "little belt," in English the skirt steak from around the beef's ribcage. Tex sneers at impossibilities like "shrimp fajitas."