Thirty

Well, see ya November! You've been fleet of foot. Here I am, in a house nearly empty of Thanksgiving family (Mark's mom is here until Tuesday, and Mark is staying in Connecticut tonight after returning college kids to their respective colleges). It's always so hard to get back to routines of regular life after a whirlwind of holiday people/food/events. December will bring a flurry of work, including work on the kitchen, and a drive to North Carolina, and some Christmassing there, and a drive back.

Don't forget your rabbit rabbits tomorrow, my dears.

Twenty-nine

They all leave this morning, but wonderfully (and alarmingly), they'll be back in just a couple of weeks! What a lovely long holiday weekend, as preoccupied as they were with finishing work for the semester, and in Zoë's case, finishing grad school applications. We had time for TV-watching, tea drinking, game playing, and many delicious baked goods.

Twenty-eight

It only hit me today how little of November is left, despite my counting down like this. December usually comes sneaking up on me, but I guess there are hardly any months I don't feel that way about (it still takes a long long time for March to arrive, and usually April too). We celebrated Thanksgiving at India Palace with a delicious feast, and we've been more or less feasting ever since. It feels lovely to have the house full, and our temporary kitchen situation is even working out just fine.

Gus couldn't be happier about this snow, just barely enough for a dog to frolic in.

Twenty-seven

“I am grateful for what I am and have. My thanksgiving is perpetual. It is surprising how contented one can be with nothing definite - only a sense of existence. Well, anything for variety. I am ready to try this for the next ten thousand years, and exhaust it. How sweet to think of! my extremities well charred, and my intellectual part too, so that there is no danger of worm or rot for a long while. My breath is sweet to me. O how I laugh when I think of my vague indefinite riches. No run on my bank can drain it, for my wealth is not possession but enjoyment.” ― Henry David Thoreau

Twenty-six

Before the storm. Today was a houseful, Isaac's friends coming over and drinking all the eggnog, Zoë and Meghan happy but stressed, working hard. Jonah, Mark's mom, and I spent an hour watching old Ok Go videos, and also this again, which makes me cry every time:

Twenty-five

The day went from warm to cold, but stayed glowing gray. Mark and I finally cleared all the summery things from the yard, and then his mom and I quickly cleaned out the car before he drove to New York to pick up three kids and bring them back.

So now it's me and Jonah and Grandma Nancy and a dog and cat, in a clean, quiet house. Waiting for the travelers, waiting for the snow.

She bought us pumpkin ginger donuts this morning, and we sat in the park and ate them happily.

Twenty-four

"I am so tired of waiting,
Aren't you,
For the world to become good
And beautiful and kind?"

-- Langston Hughes

Twenty-three

Last night when I got in bed, Mark was so tired he said, "How's the furniture doing?"

We spent another day with our arms in the air, and we also realized we're two boards short (well, one board short and one didn't get stained right because there was tape residue or something on it). So tomorrow we'll obtain two more boards, and I'll stain them, and then we can proceed. Meanwhile, though, we have two of four lights installed!

(Also, Jonah and I ducked out this morning for a Tandem sticky bun, which is a marvel of baked goodness--there's a hint of orange and maybe cardamom, and it's iced with a very light touch, and every single bite of it is perfection.)

Twenty-two

The day went pretty much like this. Mark and I had our arms straight up in the air basically all day long, and as a result about half of our ceiling is up, nailed there, not going anywhere. Thank heavens (and our friend Mitchell) for this lovely nail gun. These tongue-in-groove boards are so long, and sometimes a tiny bit warped, and the tongues don't always want to slide nicely into the grooves. There is banging and hammering and shoving and stuff involved, all while someone (me) stands at one end desperately holding the board against the plaster overhead. And then there's the trimming and cutting holes for light fixtures and the weird, non-straight walls, etc (I do so love the smell of sawdust, though).

Anyway, we had a couple of bright spots in our day: first, picking Jonah up at the bus station, and second, getting Thai carryout. A low spot in between was having a carefully situated electrical cord fall out of a hole in the ceiling (long story). It took us an hour and a half, two unspooled wire hangers, lots of duct tape, and the long arms of a certain tall nephew to get the cord threaded from one hole up through the ceiling and back down through another hole. I can't even begin to describe the thrills and chills.

OH if you love Serial like I do, you might enjoy the meta wonderland which is Slate's weekly podcast about a weekly podcast. And you know what? Other podcasts are podcasting about it, too!

Twenty-one

One thing about painting rooms white is that it's super obvious when there is a spider hanging out where the wall meets the ceiling. I would like them to move along on their own, but this time of year I find myself accidentally on purpose murdering several of them.

Speaking of this time of year, next week is Thanksgiving! I know, right? We still have to clean up our yard of its summer accessories (grill, chairs, etc). At least I got all the storm windows closed before the latest arctic blast or whatever descended.

My sweetie Jonah arrives tomorrow for the holiday week, and then Monday Mark's mom is coming, and then Wednesday it'll be Isaac and Zoë and Zoë's petite amie! I am starting my manic cleaning routine, wherein I attempt to remove every mote of dust and speck of pet dander from Z's room, and we make sure we have enough pillows and blankets and air mattresses for every body that will be resting here.

Here is a gratuitous wet puppy picture.

Kiss kiss.

Twenty

I am a sloppy painter--or, I start out tidy and end up with paint all over myself. My painting jeans have holes in the butt and white paint spattered here and there. But my kitchen walls are as white as white can be. I won't show you a picture until we get some of the ceiling up, because there are holes for light fixtures and cords and wires and things are rough where the tile is going to be...

Oh, it's Thursday! Time for Serial.

Nineteen

My little Bean is 22 today, somehow. I am older than 22 in this picture, but not by that many years! Funny how time works, isn't it? I remember when this was taken, we were waiting for the ferry to Block Island, the wind was blowing. Zoë wasn't talking yet, but she was signing all kinds of things--"ball" is the one I remember most clearly. During this trip, she did an alphabet puzzle that made it clear that while she didn't yet speak, she knew the entire alphabet (she never did do things in the "right" order--she walked before she crawled, etc). It wasn't all that long after this that she taught herself to read (when she was three). I love to look at this face and see both baby Zoë and grownup Zoë. She amazed me then, and she continues to amaze me with her brilliance and ferocity and sensitivity and sweet beauty and determination.

Eighteen

The sun came out today, which makes all the difference, and right now I can see my favorite murder of crows swooping through the sky together, hundreds of them. Napping goes on around here every day, even if the human inhabitants resist. I am drinking coffee with cream and eating a piece of toast with sea-salted butter.

Some nights I sleep so lightly, worrying about Zoë and Isaac, worries with some substantiated basis vying with worries that appear ridiculous in the morning light--last night was like that, thoughts racing through my head and nudging me awake hourly. It's as if they're both lost, and twelve years old, or traveling solo through India with no Internet access. It's the opposite of that feeling when they (rarely) are both home and in their respective childhood bedrooms, and my brain is utterly satisfied and content with that knowledge.

I got a coat of primer on the kitchen walls first thing this morning, everything smooth and patched and sanded, even places that used to have enormous holes in the plaster--you would never know. Tomorrow, we'll get the first coat of actual paint (ultra white) on, and when it looks perfect, we'll start putting up the long wooden boards we stained medium-dark brown.

Watching Olive Kitteridge
Reading Afterparty
Drinking hot drinks
Eating warm foods, as many orange-colored ones as I can
Listening to Serial, along with the whole rest of the known world
Cuddling with this cat, pictured above, who makes me stop several times a day to pet him and scratch his ears and kiss his head

Seventeen

Cold rain, damp dogs, birds in the blue-gray sky. It's the kind of Monday that keeps tempting you, all day long, to take a nap.

And then there's work, and tea, and laundry to fold and rough spots on the kitchen wall that need to be sanded, just one more time, before we can finally paint. Because paint comes first, and then the ceiling, and then the tile... Don't you worry, one of these days there will be some visible change in there and I will take a picture of it!

Missing my babies. It's only a week and a half until Thanksgiving break, though.

Sixteen

According to my acupuncturers (I know, I just wanted to write that), I should be eating warm foods, roasted vegetables (especially orange-colored ones), whole grains, ginger tea. Drinking plenty of water, but not cold water and not during meals. I start off each day with a healthy bowl of oatmeal, but things go awry soon after. Still, in the Digestive Wars, I feel that I currently have the upper hand (is it me vs. bad bacteria? Or me vs. my very own small intestine?).

More on lying liars! Joanna brought my attention to this episode of This American Life. It's called "Hoaxing Yourself," and it's chock full of people who lie for odd and complex reasons. The guy who pretends to be British/believes he is British reminds me of the time, in my 20s, I met a British nanny who seemed really familiar, and eventually I remembered briefly meeting her my sophomore year of college, in Wellesley, Massachusetts, when she was most definitely not British.

The most interesting story to me, though, is the "Rent" fan who faked being terminally ill--factitious disorder!

I have gone back several times to read this story, of a young woman who faked cancer for months. It's absolutely fascinating, in part because she did this so successfully in person (not just online, which is weirdly common), and also because she didn't do it for financial gain--or any real gain that makes any sense. Attention, I guess, and in her case, connection with someone who actually was (physically) sick.

Then there's the aspect of factitious disease, particularly Munchausen by Proxy, that's hideously sexist, focused as it tends to be on women, particularly mothers. It's a little "hysteria," circa 1800, really. But still, incredibly interesting.

Fifteen

Tis the season for Candy Cane Jo-Jos and the smell of cinnamon brooms wherever you go, have you noticed? Mark and I went to India Palace tonight for dinner, and Portland was busy and cold enough to snow (though it didn't). We miss Isaac so much when we eat there, which we haven't done more than a couple of times since he left for school. There's an extravagantly pierced, blue-dreadlocked young woman who's taken his place working there. Herpal, one of Isaac's sweet co-workers, is always pleased to see us. We are planning to eat there on Thanksgiving.

We painted and electricked in the kitchen most of the day (I also ducked out to meet up with some lovely friends for lunch). There are no updated kitchen photos to post yet, because most of what we've accomplished is kind of behind the scenes (wires in walls, putty in holes, sanding sanding, etc).

Fourteen

Snow, just enough for Gus to leap for joy, and then sun. It's dark so early we're ready for bed at 7. But we don't succumb--instead we watch episodes of The Good Wife. Something Very Big just happened (we are in the middle of Season Five). It made Mark mad, it was So Big.

Now, to tear the drywall off the kitchen ceiling!

Thirteen

Mark is watching the scene from The Wire where Snoop buys a nail gun. I think that's going to be the theme of our home improvement weekend!

Twelve

We love the fog. Well, Mark and I do--this guy loves everything.

Here are some of his dog pals. Don't they look like characters in a children's book about a bunch of dogs? One of these days I'll actually write that book...

Eleven

I coincidentally read two fascinating longish-form things today about fabulists, Hanna Rosin's piece in the New Republic about Steven Glass and this 2012 New Yorker story about a marathon runner who (almost certainly) cheats. It's fascinating to read about liars who can sustain these super complicated stories for so long--both stories involve fake websites, notes, and characters. The first article is also about forgiveness, and the second is more open-ended.

It made me want to listen to this good old This American Life episode, "Liars." So good.

And I've always been interested in Munchausen Syndrome and Munchausen by proxy, which I guess now fall under the umbrella term Factitious Disorder? All of these are fabulous syndrome names, and the disorders are ones that are somehow simultaneously beyond my understanding and weirdly comprehensible. I think anyone with even a tiny bit of experience with lying, getting caught in a complicated lie or feeling the terror/gratification of a successful lie or exaggeration, could see how this might happen, and how it would be both compulsive and satisfying, but also...humiliating. And complicated, of course, by the fact that it's a mental illness, a true compulsion.




“All of us have to be prevaricators, hypocrites, and liars every day of our lives; otherwise the social structure would fall into pieces the first day. We must act in one another's presence just as we must wear clothes. It is for the best” ― O. Henry

Ten

We spent Monday working and feeling worn out after a weekend of staining boards (they'll eventually be the new kitchen ceiling), rewiring electrical doo-dads, priming the wall. It doesn't sound so exhausting looking at that list now, but believe you me, etc.

Next on the Kitchen List: tear down the drywall in the ceiling (at first we thought we could get away without doing this, but no); another coat or two of primer to cover up the strange Pepto Bismol pink; backer board where the tile will be. Whee!

Nine

Today (so far) I

ate two and a half donuts (which is approximately one donut too many)(but one and a half were pumpkin ginger SO GOOD)

stained a bunch of boards in a well-ventilated room and spilled 1/4 can of stain on the basement floor and cleaned it up with kitty litter and paper towels

talked to my sweetest girl on the phone

drank coffee first, tea later

tried to remember to drink water too

peed a thousand times

listened to this Luluc Tiny Desk Concert

listened to the Dinner Party Download

listened to the Slate Culture Gabfest

listened to Welcome to Night Vale

did a load of laundry

listened to San Fermin

primed the walls in the kitchen

ate some potato chips

received this excellent spam comment on this very blog:



"I am an American man, and I have decided to boycott American women. In a nutshell, American women are the most likely to cheat on you, to divorce you, to get fat, to steal half of your money in the divorce courts, don’t know how to cook or clean, don’t want to have children, etc. Therefore, what intelligent man would want to get involved with American women?

American women are generally immature, selfish, extremely arrogant and self-centered, mentally unstable, irresponsible, and highly unchaste. The behavior of most American women is utterly disgusting, to say the least.

This blog is my attempt to explain why I feel American women are inferior to foreign women (non-American women), and why American men should boycott American women, and date/marry only foreign (non-American) women. BOYCOTT AMERICAN WOMEN!"

Eight

I just finished five days of black and white photos on Instagram. It was fun--my pictures are usually all about color, even if it's subtle. So it's good to think about light and shadow and composition (sorry, that's all a little pompous when I'm talking about iPhone 5S "photographs."). Anyway, this is the windowseat, and the upstairs hall looks way better in black and white than in real life.

Sunny, cold November Saturday: tea and toast, cat and dog. I'm not letting myself listen to NPR, but instead have soothing Pandora stations going. I'm waiting for Mark to get home with a carload of wood that we're going to fashion into a kitchen ceiling, one way or another.

Self-portrait with two sweaters and coffee.

Can you even believe it's already two-sweater season? I am having a hard time anticipating the Arctic Blast that's forecast for next week, when I'm not at all organized yet as far as long underwear and gloves and so on. I'm not ready.

You know what makes me happy? Knowing that right now Zoë and Isaac are sitting together in a cafe in New York working on their papers and pages of reading. They've spent more time together this fall than they have had the chance to do for years, and that makes me so content, just thinking about it. I miss them less when I know they're together, somehow.


Also making me happy:

: : the Serial podcast, suspenseful as any good crime drama or mystery, and I'm a fan of Sarah Koenig.
: : my fidelity, always always, to the Oxford comma. Isaac lets me proofread his papers sometimes, and I start by making sure the commas are correct (they usually are).
: : anticipating the new Decemberists album.
: : where they at doe?

Seven

I get to live in a place where the sky comes in colors like this! That stripe of blue, that blue. The silver sky, the silver-gray ocean. There's a lighthouse in this picture, for heaven's sake.

And yet, politically it's feeling yucky here in Maine--here in this country I suppose. Assuming Vermont stays Vermonty, with single payer health care coming and everything, my dreamy browsing of little farm houses has moved in that direction. It's kind of my second choice, aesthetically, of the Perfect Place.

Like this house, for example:

But mostly I'm trying to be here, right now, where I am.

Six

I saw a headline on Twitter that said: Maine man accused of shaking baby to plead guilty. Doesn't it sound like the guy shook the baby to try to force it to plead guilty to something?

Five

Cranky old cowboys,
A kid, a bear, and JLo:
Hallmark Channel fare.

Four

Back home by the ocean, and a morning with the sky pebbled with these funny clouds. The beach was tiny, the tide as high as it could be, and six big dogs frolicked and splashed and played with a buoy (can you get more Maine than that?). Mark and I voted, which is always fun. My fingers are crossed. I keep imagining the sad result of four more years of our dreadful, mean-spirited, potty-mouthed governor. It might mean we really and truly find some way to move to Vermont.

It's so utterly November today.

Three

Home again, after a happy/sad weekend, including a quick visit with my girl in Cambridge.  I drove there from Holly's house in Connecticut partially in a swirling sudden snowstorm, the kind that makes you grip the steering wheel a little bit tighter and constantly re-adjust the windshield wipers.

Now I've got a few days' worth of catching up to do. There is sun slanting through the window at a strange, post-Daylight Savings Time angle. There is snow in the grass, but there are also pink beach roses still blooming in the yard.

Two

It's that time of year again, National Novel Writing Month! In celebration, I'm merely attempting a blog post a day, even when I'm computerless like I am today. Blogger is utterly helpless in the face of phone-posting, which makes me suspect that Google will eventually ditch it altogether... Anyway, this is my post on this windy blustery November morning in Connecticut.

Rabbit rabbit.

It is deep autumn
My neighbor
How does he live, I wonder.

- Basho