REPORT A PROBLEM
An absolutely beautiful day to kick off the long weekend, resulted in a spontaneous decision to drive out to Davis Peach Farm in the late afternoon. We took the Rattler, it was such a beautiful day, you simply had to drive a convertible if you had one, especially as it was the end of summer. Zipping along in the beautiful sunshine, with the Rattler rattling, I really felt the thrumming kick up in my chest, a signal that my blood pressure was skyrocketing. It really detracted from the glorious adventure of the day and made me feel like an invalid.
OK, so I’m not a very social creature but, still, I thought I was prepared for the neighbors’ big bash today. I was wrong, so very wrong. From the set up that began at 7:30 Saturday morning, to the live band (!) in the back yard and the flood lights set up – facing my house, mind you – to illuminate the continuous games of horseshoes played late into the night, I wasn’t prepared for it. We need to get the fence up between the properties, and if they do this again next year, we need to be somewhere else that day.
The day after the party – and it continues. There will not be any quiet enjoyment of the back yard today, Labor Day will not be spent outdoors, not at my house, anyway. I hate feeling that we have to “hide” our grilling, but we both just want to avoid them today. The fence must go up. I guess that’s part of what this year’s bonus will go for – if I can swing the timing: get the fence installed in late October, pay it off in November. The roof will probably have to wait until spring – if I’m still living here.
Traffic has not yet caught up to the reality that summer is over. Some people are clearly still on vacation, but there’s a definite increase in volume. The commute is generally acceptable in the summer, but the first week or so in September is a rude awakening – there have been days where the 27 miles takes 2 hours. At least I’ve got XM, and can listen to Bob Edwards when I find the news too depressing in the morning, which is most days. Evenings, I’m tuning in to Sonic Theater, half an hour of a classic novel seems just right.
As a child, when you started a new school year, everything about it was actually new: new teachers, new subjects and books, new students, maybe even a whole new school. Now, as an adult, the new school year still seems to me to contain the same promise, but it just never actually arrives. There are no new teachers, no new subjects or books, there’s no new locker to decorate, and it is just more of the same old tired processes, continuing without end. As a working stiff, there is no recess out in the schoolyard, just nose to the grindstone
Fionn has an obsession with the silk merino Sundara yarn. Some yarns he ignores, but for certain other, special yarns, especially those with silk or baby alpaca, he waits until the deepest, darkest hour of night, and then begins to play with them. He toys with the ball and herds it through the house, leaving a trailing bit of yarn from the center-pull ball from wherever he started. Generally, he manages to bat them up the stairs into my bedroom, quite a feat – if he’d just carried the yarn upstairs, like a puppy dog, there wouldn’t be a trailing end.
With the house to myself for the evening, I finally sit down and watch Serenity. It was like sitting down with an old friend you haven’t seen in a few years – no matter how long you talk, you always want more. What took me so long? In an odd fluke, I just heard about the Browncoat Ball in Philadelphia later this month - I want to go! I’m still sore at missing DragonCon, but I realize the timing of this year’s Ball is all but impossible, so I resign myself to missing out on yet another Fun Thing To Do.
I drove past the Dream House and discovered it was having another open house. I debated, I argued with myself, but just couldn’t help myself in the end, so I went in, ignoring the agent as much as possible, as he wasn’t the listing agent. The MBR window does face the garbage container for the doctor’s office, which is a real drawback. There were kids on bikes or skateboards in the doctor’s parking lot. I again found the kitchen a bit short on countertop and storage space, peculiar since the room is so large. Can I let it go now?
Happy Birthday, my beloved, Happy Birthday to you. I feel so fortunate to have found you. You give me so much, in so many ways, I want to give you everything in return, but you rarely express a desire for anything. Except for your mechanical diving watches. So I bake you cinnamon rolls and scones and anything else I can think of. Dinner at JT’s on the bay is wonderful (never mind the music) and it’s a gorgeous, end-of-summer day - perfect. I am really looking forward to coming home to you every day next week and every week thereafter.
The world seems rife with possibilities on your first day of work. Geoffrey started today at the new dialysis unit, where he has a nice, large office, in a brand-spanking new building. I don’t really remember what it was like to be excited to go off to work. It is something that I dread every day, the combination of boredom and “do-this-now!” unreasonableness. It is truly feast or famine: there are days when I hardly do anything, others where I cannot possibly get everything done. And very little of what I’m asked to do is of any consequence or substance.
Ah, mixing with senior management, isn’t it grand? Of course, its only a temporary situation, I’m quite sure, but for the moment, it does allow a different perspective on life and possibilities. A nice thing to happen on this of all days, the sixth anniversary. September is always a good time to take stock of one’s life: the start of the school year and my birthday made it natural, and since 2001, there does seem to be an additional impetus to examine life, recognize what you have and be thankful for it, while asking, “Is this really what I want?”
It’s “Anything can happen” Wednesday. Except nothing interesting or of significance did happen. How very disappointing. A typical day filled with meetings, “filled with sound and fury and signifying nothing,” as the Bard wrote. Sometimes I feel as if life, and particularly my career, is just passing me by. I’m caught between wanting to run the show, and wanting my personal time to be my time. The only way I can have both is if I’m working for myself, and the options there are very limited. But at least I’ve stopped worrying if I am living up to my potential.
Maybe, just maybe, there’s a reason to stay a little longer. A frank conversation with the new CIO indicates my time in purgatory is temporary, there might be an appreciation and actual use of my talent in the near future. I am excited by the prospect, but am also quite uncertain if I can wait as long as it might take according to his timeline, and acknowledge that it still may not come to pass. I’ve been kept in a box the last two years and I have to get out: I turn boredom and frustration inward with nasty consequences.
I want out, I want out, I want out. For some reason it is very hard to stay put until 5:30 pm on Fridays. I find myself doing anything but work, as soon as the bare minimum is done. I didn’t used to be like this, but then again, I used to have work that I found challenging and entertaining. And I had some flexibility in my schedule. Now, there’s no flexibility, and I find it stultifying, when there’s even any work. So I daydream, I surf, I read trade magazines when I think I can get away with it.
I’m missing Lyndhurst, again. To console myself, I sort the accumulation of yarn that has grown in my closet, and start planning for the fall and winter knitting projects. I wind yarn from skeins into cones, doubling the plies on the Colourmart cashmere. There is gentle rhythm to this that I find very soothing. Fion is predictably quite interested in the yarn, especially the purple. I try to do the simple math to calculate if there’s enough yardage with the doubled plies for the sweaters I want, but I can’t seem to focus. I’ll need to double check these numbers.
Four houses in one afternoon is a little daunting and we wind up more than a little dazed by the evening. Once again, it is close, but no cigar: the houses either need too much work to be livable for us (work beyond updating finishes, .), don’t offer enough inside space, or land, or are otherwise flawed beyond acceptable limits: why buy a house that requires walls to be moved? I wouldn’t have thought it would be this hard, to find the right size house with the right size land, but we’ve almost exhausted the current stock in the area.
Why is it I’m drawn to the colors of some yarns and not others? I think it may be because they are more “painterly” yarns – the yarns from Alchemy, for example, come in beautiful colors, and variegated colorways. These colors come from the artist’s palette, not from the trendy clothes that are the “in thing” this season. Some of the yarn companies bring out new shade cards for their yarns every year, which seem to match the tired and unsuitable colors I see in department store clothes. The painterly color set my imagination on fire. I need more time…and money!
Malabrigo yarns only make merino yarns, which I can sometimes wear, but sometimes cannot , as it is wool, after all. But I must find out if it is possible to wear this yarn, because I cannot resist these colorways. They are based on clear, pure, intense colors like oil paint right out of the tube: the rich, royal purples, forest to jade greens, and beautiful marine and sky blues. Since they’re not silk or bamboo, Malabrigo skeins are much less expensive. I’ve always understood “color fever” mentioned in “A Winter’s Tale” but now, I’ve got a way to indulge.
A day in the city and I didn’t put a run in the hose –most amazing. I knitted, here, there, and everywhere. I listened to the experts but I didn’t really come away with that much, although I dutifully took notes to share with the folks back home, as I’d been commanded. Most of all, it was a day out of the routine, the treadmill, the gristmill of sitting there with nearly nothing to do, and nothing that challenges me to think, or expand my horizons. I feel like I’m calcifying, mind, body and soul turning to stone from inactivity.
The purple fan and feather cashmere stole came out beautiful. Not too heavy, but substantial nonetheless. I broke my own rule and started something else, actually, two somethings (a stash stole and a new jacked), but I did work through the collection and have set aside some projects that just need ends woven in to be finished. There’s one knitted tank shell that just needs finishing edge completed and then sewing/weaving ends in. My other projects in progress are nicely bagged, and the cashmere for my fall projects is ready to go. Must find the dark navy cashmere for mom!
As we drove back from a lovely dinner on the north shore, we chased the moon down Nicholls Road. Of course, there was a stop at the Dream House, to see what it was like at night, how much street light hit the house and such. We can’t seem to shake our fascination with this house, no matter how many times we express our concerns to each other about the location. I have a definite birthday wish for myself today: that we are able to find the right house for us very, very soon, and be released from this limbo.
I finally watched the Babylon 5 Lost Tales DVD today. I was right, it was wonderful to be inserted back into that familiar universe, and now I want more, but there is no “more”, not yet. It doesn’t seem possible that it ended nearly ten years ago. My mind really balks at that idea, so I console my self with the actual nine years. I suppose the only viable option is to start watching the original B5 episodes, and Geoffrey can watch with me or not, although I don’t expect him to get into the series the way I did.
We saw four more houses today, and it appears we may finally have another candidate, an old farmhouse in Brookhaven with land and guest cottage. We're both at least little in love at this point, but we didn't have enough time there to really pore over it. Never mind that he looked at houses for more than year before he found the Gatehouse, Geoffrey appears to be tiring of the search already and sometimes is a bit like a 3 year old who didn’t get his nap. Or perhaps it is just a desire for us to be settled already.
Sitting in the backyard last night, we discussed the houses. We talked about the farmhouse and the idea of a guest cottage. I like the idea, not to rent, but to have a separate space for mom & dad when visiting, or for Geoffrey and the boys to party late into the night that one day a year they actually all get together, or to just be able to hang out outside the house if there’s a problem there. Geoffrey appears inclined to discount it altogether, unless it is rented out, but I don’t want a tenant on the property.
I’m impossibly behind again. My personal schedule’s in absolute disrepair. Catch-as-catch-can definitely doesn’t work for this writing, it requires discipline, which is scarce. Geoffrey and I are trying to find an evening routine, without much luck yet. Weekends are an odd mix of him coming and going, me trying to do chores, having some fun and also house hunt. Geoffrey’s also feeling the strain, realizing he hasn’t cooked anything, seriously cooked, in a couple months. We both really want things settled (and NOW!) but neither one of us is willing to “settle” aka compromise on the issue of the house.
Indian summer. You’ve already gone back to school, maybe had a dreary or cold day or two, and then suddenly its blazing sunshine, too hot to wear long sleeves. That’s today. And I’m flashing back to first grade, after school with Tammy who lived on Riverview Drive, going into town on an errand with her parents while waiting for Mom to pick me up, and somehow macaroni and cheese with hot dogs is buried in this memory – the afterschool snack Tammy’s mom served us? It’s all jumbled up, intertwined, layers in need of a memory archeologist to find the truth.
Yes, I’d change the interior paint colors. My real concern is the laundry that is in a closet in the second bedroom – but really only a concern if we have kids as the guest cottage becomes the perfect place for overnight guests. I can see myself in this farmhouse, I can see us here, it makes me happy. But Geoffrey doesn’t care so much for the house – I’m floored when he says that overall his current favorite is the house from Sunday that I liked least. And so the saga continues. We must both agree, feel “home” with no qualms.
It is a little strange to come home to an empty house tonight, and know that Geoffrey won’t be walking in the door. Friday nights alone are both a blessing and a curse. I don’t have to worry about waking Geoffrey if I get up early in the morning on Saturday, but it is a bit of a let down not to see him on Friday night. I want to get things fixed, final, settled, so it’s another four houses this weekend, exploring in a different area, one that I couldn’t ever consider before, it was out of my budget.
I’m startled late in the evening by Geoffrey’s arrival – I wasn’t expecting him until tomorrow morning, but he decided to come down tonight rather than wait. And he brought pink blush roses, for no other reason than he saw them and remembered that I like them. It erases all the small pains and problems of the day, knowing that there’s someone, HIM, that cares for me this way. Even if he has disrupted my very cozy late-night reading in bed, and riled the cats with his sudden appearance. We’re all here together now, and that’s the way it should be.
Finally, a house that takes the Dream House head on and wins: a house with Hamptons cedar shake style, the interior rooms are gracious, the kitchen more workable, a screened in porch for the cats, a deck off the master for coffee in the morning, a two car garage, separate guest apartment (not cottage) and more than 1.5 acres of land. In a very quiet setting, literally, in move-in condition – we might paint, we might not. I’m ready to let go of the Dream House and make an offer on this one right now, but Geoffrey wants to keep looking.
The Tip Jar