"So why do you come up here again?" Pam asked me, as we cleaned onions. "To scratch my itch".
Welcome to Whidbey.
I got up at 5:30am this morning, the first of twelve glorious days off, to go to two gardens and harvest Kale, Swiss Chard, Broccoli, Beans, Onions, Mustard Greens, Lettuce, Peas, Basil, Kholrabi, Potatoes, and Raspberries. We started at one garden, and moved to a 2nd after a couple of hours. Then we had lunch, at 10am.
Then we "processed", which is the verb for what we do when we wash, snip, sort, bag, and get all of the veggies presentation-ready.
And right now? Right now I am blissfully sunburnt, kinda relaxed (thanks to cocoa and wine and a veggie-laden dinner), watching fireworks over the Harbor. I am therefore logging out, so I can enjoy it.
You can enjoy my pictures, though.
Very little has changed since last summer, when, having had a couple glasses of champagne I was conned into running a half marathon.
A couple of weeks ago at my dad's house Ms.Amy and I were talking (Ms.Amy is my brother's girlfriend, and she is cool) and I freely admit to having had a lil' red wine and Ms.Amy conned me into a triathalon at the end of September.
The running part I am not worried about: it requires no real special equipment and I've got myself to a solid 10 minute pace. However, tri-athalons mean there are two other things for me to do, and they include swimming and biking.
I haven't swam for speed in nearly 20 years, and I haven't been on a bike in as long. Plus, triathalons seem to be equipment-intense (you know... the bike? the special shorts? the nifty cap?) which has me eyeballing my budget (yet again!) and wondering what oh what have I done?
Having finished the male person's window dressing I suddenly found myself without a project... for about five seconds. Friday night I came home and instead of doing what rational people would do (er... relax?) I reorganized my fabric storage and my paperwork and went for a run, and then on Saturday morning I vacuumed out the fireplace and cleaned the floors and hosted a dinner. On Sunday I ran and did errands and started to catalog my library.
Now, I have a library catalog in Excel, but it only includes little things like author's first name, last name, title of book, year published, etc. It does not include the ISBN number, which I need if I'm going to upload to Goodreads. For some reason this is a necessity for me, so I launched that project yesterday.
I took down books in stacks of five and filled up my dining room table. Then I picked up each one and logged it into Excel, sorted it by author's last name (my sorting had got way off in my favorite authors), dusted it, and returned it to the shelf. From logging to returning to shelf for 100 books took about an hour. One hundred books takes up 1/3 of one shelf. I have 7 shelves.
This...should keep me busy for a while.
I am working from home today.
Originally I had signed the C up into The Camp That Was To Be Awesome. TCTWTBA had field trips to Discovery Park and Snoqualmie Falls and promised a diversity of kids, etc. It was to be 6 solid hours of crazy exhausting fun for everyone, at a 4 kids to 1 counselor ratio, and I paid accordingly.
I brought him to the "pick up" location at 8:45, 15 minutes early because I didn't want to be late. By 9 most of the other kids had shown up, and they were diverse all right: between the ages of 10 and 16. There were maybe 3 kids total under that age, one of whom (not mine) picked up a racquet ball paddle and insisted on drumming on the table, despite the protestation and condemnation of his mother and the counselors.
The next wave of kids showed up in the official Van. This was the Van, you see, that was to whisk them off to Discovery Park. It took the next hour for the two counselorettes (and there was a male volunteer counselor) to figure out that 18 kids and 3 adults can't fit into a 12 person Van.
So Discovery Park did not happen, and the C was crying as I left, and I left with severe disappointment. When I came to pick him up, he had had a good day, except for the 10 year old who hit him on the head twice with the plastic bat and the fact that no one wanted to play with him.
I pulled him out of the camp, and found another one where he will be mixed with kids his own age for the next session. In the meantime, he is home with me, squealing (literally, a couple of times) with delight at the antique transformers his Crazy Uncle Dan bestowed on him. Since Crazy Uncle Dan was a meticulous collector of all things legos, transformers, and Star Wars, and has ceded his 5-7 year collection from 1982-1988 to the boy, I expect the squealing to continue...
I tried explaining the concept of the Summer Solstice to the C today on the phone. He's at his dad's house, for this is not only Father's Day weekend but his brother J's birthday, and these things are important.
"Today** is the longest day of the year!" I told him. "Oh, yah?", he replied, not really caring at all. I then went into detail about how today the sun would be "up" longer than on any other day, and that it's exactly opposite of wintertime, near his birthday, when the sun is up the shortest amount. We agreed this was very neat and moved on to the more important discussion of J's missing a blue coin in Lego Star Wars.
It occurs to me that time has a completely different reference from when you are six, to when you are 36 (almost). School's out for the summer, ten glorious weeks of break time before he goes back to daily sheets and teachers, and I think to myself how that is not long at all. And I'm sure he's thinking to himself how it is infinite... the prospect of school and supplies and back to school shopping and fall and winter clothing and all of that just interminably long from now. Me? I've preordered his school supplies (The PTA had a thing...).
I look around at all of the things to be done: I have gravel pathways to lay and weeding and transplanting and I could always properly catalog my library... and feel overwhelmed. He looks around at all the things to be done: summer camp and a trip to hawaii and a new house (dad is moving to Auburn, which is weirdly closer in terms of drive time than North Seattle) and a camping trip and a trip to grammie's... and feels blissfully overwhelmed.
It's time to live vicariously. I could use a little more bliss. In that vein, I'm headed to CC's to celebrate the summer solstice.
*OK, so modern concept is that the solstices are all perfectly neat on the 21st of the 6th and 12th months. But you see, this planet we live on is round, and the technical definition of the summer solstice is when the tilt of the earth's axis is most inclined toward the sun (and the winter is the inverse). Now, the earth has 360 degrees (being round, and while not technically a perfect sphere but an oblate spheroid, it works good enough for this example) and rotates around itself every 24 hours. Therefore, the axis is at that "most tilted point" for each 15 degrees of space for one hour. While it would be very neat indeed if that started at 12:01 GMT 06-21, it never quite works that way; probably because when they were calculating this stuff and GMT in the first place it came from the same group who was originally using sundials and stones. It still beats the hell out of a calendar that requires 5 "zero" days, though.
Therefore, Solstice for the Pacific Northwest, specifically Seattle, is *today*. Again, specifically at 10:45pm.
So it's not only a pretty long day, but it's a pretty long post (/babble).
The waiting room in the Coral section of the Evergreen Hospital in Kirkland, WA, is the grand equalizer of women. That is where you wait for your first, second, etc. through 8 millionth mammogram.
They have flowery drapes you wear over your top parts.
Today was a 2nd-run set of films, because my first showed "something we want to have a better look at", which turned out to be "folded tissue". I have the number to call to get copies of the images they took today, and I am so totally posting them. You can see my tissues, this is that kind of blog.
I sat in the waiting room, with my conciliatory jelly doughnut and starbucks-esque (but not quite) coffee, all purchased for the price of a latte (like I said, -esque but not quite) wearing my flowery drape and reading Martha Stewart. Some other woman had cornered the Fortune 400 magazine I glommed on earlier. It's okay, I've learned of collecting wire egg baskets and how to make matzo into delicious appetizers.
I looked around at my compatriots in pancaking: the mid-60's, embracing "little old lady" lady. The yuppie yoga mom. The working woman. The other working woman. The possibly part-time working woman. The way too young to be here woman (nearly girl). "Jennifer", the assistant called, and two women stood. "Um, Jennifer whose last name begins with 'L', I mean". A woman went forward, another sat down. "This waiting room is the last great equalizer", I observed, to no one in particular. A smile or two, an uncomfortable half-smile, and dead silence greeted my attempt at humor. No one was up for it.
They called my name. It was my formal name. I have met in my lifetime, personally, maybe 3 women with my name. The oldest woman and I stood up. "Um, [DD] with a 'C'". She sat down, I went through the door.
I got the same technician as I had before. I had to re-explain my piercings (how many mammaries had she seen in the ensuing two weeks?) and we concentrated on my right breast. Apparently that one was the problematic one. I got to see the digital images of the folded tissue, how it looked "suspicious". I found it weird that the thing that makes a girl feel most girly -- and I don't care who you are or what your cup size is, your breasts make you feel girly, ever since your first training bra -- could be so deadly. I thought about how I stood, one arm over the machine bracing myself, one slack, while my right breast was smashed into something resembling roadkill. I tried to concentrate on how many single dashes made up the digital numbers expressing just how much my boob was being smashed and just at what angle (hint: the number 8 has 7 dashes, the number 9 has 5, etc.). And I thought about how many women had walked into this room, in this same circumstance, with this same cheery technician, and walked out with a death sentence.
"Would you still love me with a radical double mastectomy?" I had asked GH once. "Are there any double mastectomies that aren't radical?" he replied, before the required "yes". I was palpably sweating, which is not nice, as they don't let you wear deodorant to this shindig.
Chirpy and cheery as ever, she smashed my boob flat (90 degree angle this time) and talked about eaching her teenaged (15 and 16, she must have done something foul at some time to deserve it) daughters how to drive. We chatted piercings. Then she smashed my boob at 0 degrees and the machine bit in to the sides, as it was a different machine than last time and they were essentially trying to flatten the fold. Then she smashed it again at 45 degrees.
Then I got to sit in the waiting room, that cold, unfriendly place with cold, unfriendly women, each occupied with her own thoughts of impending doom (if not discomfort) for 30 minutes.
Thirty minutes is a very long time.
She called me in again, and we looked over the screens, and the radiologist visited, and said what he was worried about was this thing on the top of my right boob. He was going to request one more screen, and then if that didn't satisfy him we were off to an ultrasound.
I went back with the cheery lady and I swear if my breast had been a dog it would have run off long and since with its tail between its legs.
Instead it quavered and was smashed once again, this time at an angle I couldn't be bothered to view or count.
I sat again in the waiting room, not so very long this time. They called my name again and the cheerful lady came in and went over the results with me again, and announced it must have been folded tissue. Come back in six months.
I have absolutely no guilt over the jelly doughnut.
As I drove into work today I had the luxury of watching people walking along the sidewalk (courtesy of an all way crossing near the metro transit station, downtown Bellevue). I like people watching, it will be a useful skill when I'm Dictatrix.
A reasonably youngish and definitely pretty blond in shorts (not short shorts) came jogging along and a young man, watching her, did the casual eyes up and down thing that men do. (Men do do. We know this.)
The first thing that popped into my head was, "Pig!"
The second thing that popped into my head was, "Why?!?"
That's right. Why is this man a pig? He is not, or at least I don't know him well enough to make that assumption. I was essentially assuming this miscellaneous male person was disgusting-in-the-head because he eyeballed a blonde. This means I'm doubly disgusting, I guess, as I eyeballed them both.
I started to analyze why I jumped to this conclusion (after all, it's a pretty long crossing period). The entire process went something like this: Woman is pretty, man looks her up and down, man and woman depart each other's company without knowing eachother (presumably) or having any visible interaction, the end.
I think the reaction of "Pig" is one of defense: after all, he must be thinking lascivious thoughts, right?
And this is bad because...
Hm.
You see, women are guilty of this too. I know this, because I'm a woman, and I have had lascivious thoughts about random men I didn't know. One was in an elevator one time, and that turned out rather well.
Therefore, lascivious thoughts ping on both sides, and it isn't fair to jump to pigness that way.
Maybe it's because we have the feeling he is judging her? Yes! That's it, he's totally judging her.
He's not saying anything though. He's looking at her, evaluating, and keeping it to himself.
And this is bad because...
Hm.
It's not like he's saying "nice legs" or "are they tired" or "hey would you hump me". He's not opining whether or not Shakespeare was gay, if the weather is hot or cold, or saying anything at all. And I think *here* is the problem.
You see, we are oft told that if we can't say something nice, we shouldn't say it at all. We know he is looking, we know he is evaluating. Perhaps it is because there isn't shining, virginal (or slightly less than virginal) approval in his manner; or because he isn't saying "wow you look nice would you mind stopping running so I can ask your phone number" (because that would *totally* happen); that we jump to this conclusion. We condemn the lad not for his ogling, but for the possibility that his evaluation is less than what we'd want someone to come up with, or what we come up with for ourselves.
Touche.
Today the C went to his very first school-invite based birthday.
I say school-invite based birthday because his school has adopted the notion that the heretofore democratic system of invites-for-all was not quite right, and now if you have a birthday party you, as a parent, need to reach out individually (and outside of the school system) to the parents of the other snowflakes. C has had invites before (I think 2 or 3) but they either fell on inconvenient days (e.g., he was at his father's house) or they were obviously hearkening to the democratic system (e.g., one was for a child with whom he had got into repeated fistfights).
There is a delicate social balance to the birthday party invite, nuanced and not well documented.
First, the adult-esque "show up and bring a bottle of wine" is not the game here. A present is mandatory entrance into the venue. The depth of present expectation to be navigated is shallow and can involve math such as "okay, how much are these people spending on the party/how much did they spend on my kid". Gift receipts are required.
Second, the venue is almost certainly not at anyone's actual home. The parties are typically at offsite locations, where the adults have assigned helpers and usually someone else to clean up the mess. The location will quite likely have a minimum of a play gym but more likely will involve face painting, water play, mask making, and a whole bevy of other stuff to do.
Third, there is no question as to refreshments. There is food and drink and cake and then of course balloons and party favors. Your child/the children will have a massive carbohydrate overload, and probably be pre-diabetic by the time you go home.
There are occasionally parents who stay for the party and parents who view parties as free babysitting. The latter don't often get invited to the next party. For those who stay, you get to see your child with other children that he usually "works" with in school. You discover oftentimes your child is a cherub and some of those other little snowflakes should go melt. The one spitting in the wishing well. The one hitting the birthday boy with a balloon. The one who had to be put on 4 (count 'em) time outs by his father *during* the cake cutting and distribution. The one who arrived at the party 20 minutes late and announced he hated both of the celebrants and wanted his cake now so he could go.
You also discover that children's birthday parties are a progressive series of one-upsmanship and jones'-upkeeping. The first party we were invited to was at the McDonald's playspace. The second was at Skate King. This third was at the Kids Quest Museum. And I'm lying if I don't say I'm considering renting out an aquarium or something for the C's.
After all, *my* little snowflake deserves better.
I was on a school bus the other day with about 40 six-year-olds and 4 or 5 presumable grown up mommies (and 2 teachers). As I was assigned to my own child for chaperonage for a trip to the zoo, my job was pretty cushy. At one point in the trip I was talking with the room mother, and then was diverted in attention so she started chatting up the teacher.
She was complaining that how, in the 3 years since arriving, she's not made many friends because of what locals call the "Seattle Freeze". In spite of living in a 200+ house enclave to the north of me, the only friendships they could really maintain were through their children's playdates; her husband was having little luck making friends in his workplace.
C's teacher suggested church, and thus began the discussion of *which* church was the right church. Apparently many things factor into the *right* church: conservative interpretation of the bible, none of those non-denominational bible studies, and time of mass were the top three. And not in that order.
Excuse me?
I'm not a religious person in the slightest -- I come from a family who sent me to Catholic school in Southern California on the assumption that they could cure me of religion a good deal sooner than they could cure me of a bad education -- but I've adopted a live-and-let-live approach. That said, I've understood religion is something to expect and respect, and it was all I could do not to raise an eyebrow (full hairy Italian one at that) at the requirements list. Further arching the hairs up was the explanation that they were currently attending Episcopalean church in Medina (read: ultrafancy neighborhood about 25 minutes away, where Bill Gates lives) because, ostensibly, the Sunday mass started at 10:15 rather than the local Episcopalean church which starts at 9:30 (gasp!).
Now I'm all for convenience and proper planning, and I *get* how one's Sunday mornings can be one's only time to do something for oneself. But don't try to tell me that you drive 25 minutes away to go to a church in the fanciest neighborhood in the area because it starts 45 minutes later than your local church. You're saving a whopping 20 minutes, and spending a couple of gallons in gas in the round trip difference. You're going to that church because it's in the fancy area and perhaps the friends you cannot make in the local housing area are because they don't measure up to your standard.
I then gave her the $10 for the Kindergarten Luau. She is, after all, the room mother.
Sammamish is celebrating its 10th anniversary. I know this because when I went to download the Parks and Recreation guide, it had 10th anniversary plastered all over it.
Well, la-di-da!
I grew up when this town was unincorporated King County and if you were in dire emergency you called Dominos, not the police, because the delivery driver would reach you much faster. People had chickens and horses and roosters and goats and old chevys and outnumbered them new Microsquashians moving in.
My, how things have changed.
Now I'm in a slightly-remodeled 1970's rambler squished between McMansions and track tract* homes, one of very few single mothers (or at least it feels like it) and one of the few without an HOA. (They have one for my block, I'm not part of it, it's a LOOOOOOOOOOONG story).
Sammamish initially said it would incorporate to leverage the tax system to improve the roads. That it did, no argument there. But it also said it wouldn't bother with its own police and fire departments (2 years later, it did, which is good) and we now sport a swanky new City Hall (several story and moderny with lots of windows). We have an actual Parks and Recreation guide, a farmer's market, a city 4th of July festival, a city Haunted Celebration, a city Winterfest, and a city New Year's celebration. We sport two public high schools that play off at homecoming and the winners throw a street parade from their school to the loser's school, which ties up traffic for 2 hours during rush hour. We have two competing megamarts and gas stations, and some decent Thai food.
Yet, like a balding mid-40's CPA with a decent savings and an exceptionally nice car, we have the faint air of apology and the secret knowledge we will never be quite as sporty as Bellevue.
We do have a farmer's market... but any sammamishite will tell you it's not as big as that which you'd find in Issaquah or Redmond, and the prices are not much different. We do have a Parks & Recreation guide... 1.3mb in total, and Redmond's is 13mb plus. We do have a library... slightly smaller than my house (a new one is planned). We do not have a decent craft store.
OK, that last is my own personal bent.
I happen to like the farmer's market here, small as it is; the P&R guide is thinner but offers more than you think a fledgeling city would. My issues with Sammamish are not around if we rate as a Bellevue or Redmond or Issaquah, but that we (and I say "we" meaning "they") seem to aspire to this. We already have an alarming SUV-to-human ratio and our coffee quota has long been surpassed. We have competitive preschools and water towers with murals painted on them so they blend in with the topographically deserving trees. We have water rationing days and two weekly circular newspapers which will both earnestly tell you that Ms. Agnes P. Ditherton, on 220th street, has successfully navigated her 92nd birthday, love Paw; or that Jennifer Smitherton who graduated from Eastlake High School met and married a successful John Doe from Harvard and that she plans to puruse a career in fashion design from their new abode in Westchester.
We have long since arrived, we really need to not keep going...
*edited later: Yes, it's "tract" homes, not "track" homes. I... sometimes suck at teh spelling.
