Stress

Today did not meet my expectations. Let's just say that.

I was super happy doing laundry, hanging it dry, patching a duvet cover that the cat ate, and sarting to make piles of my mom's stuff in my home office so that I can, as a local sportscaster says cleanse the palate of the eye. 

This morning mrguy comes in the kitchenden and asks me to look at something really weird. There is a ton of water pooling in the primary bathroom, the vanity, the closet -- coming from who knows where. We finally figure out that it is coming from the sprinkler system. Everything probably needs to get tweaked now that we had people prune and take out a few trees. He cleaned up the water. I went back to blogging and looking at an auction.

After the baseball game, mrguy asks for my help in figuring out which sprinkler head is pointing the wrong direction. I ask him if he can try to figure it out without me and ask for help if he needs it, because my auction item is coming up soon. The closet window is open. That wasn't the direction that the water seemed to be coming from. Uh...

He starts working on the problem, and comes in with a look on his face. Water has started pouring into the closet through the open window, from a broken sprinkler head. Like a fountain. He turned off the water right away, but the aftermath was horrendous. All of my clothes were sopping wet, but there wasn't anywhere to hang them dry because I'd done all of the laundry. Duffle bags were filled as if they were buckets. My walnut jewelry box was humid. Even my clown shoes were doused.

Mrguy used every towel and every paper towel to clean up the mess. I have the dehumidifier going in the closet. My silica bags that I stash everywhere started to pop open, so I have to vacuum. It's a total shit show. I was so proud of making progress in putting my house back together post parental death, but I've really taken a few steps back today.

I usually have the reserves to laugh when life is really dumb. But the stress of it all, and mrguy doing all of this work while his treatment has him feeling poopy makes me sad.

I bid wrong and did not win my auction even though I put in a bid that was more than the winning bid. Operator error. Why does my hand smell like sandalwood. Good grief!

Sorry for my egregious mixing of tense in this entry. It's been a bit much. 

Jury Duty 2025

This was my first experience with being on a jury. It was fine, but frustrating. Prior to this, I didn't know that everything seems to take forever. And when you get in the jury room, things that you thought were obvious are not obvious to others. And that when everybody lies on the stand, you have a bunch of conflicting evidence that none of the jurors can agree on.

Here's the summary: a couple who lives together has a fight. The woman leaves and goes to her sister's place. She doesn't pick up when the man calls her, so he drives over to the sister's place. In the meantime, a friend (who is also a delivery guy) delivers a pizza to the two sisters. The man sees the two sisters and the pizza guy talking in the apartment parking lot and drives into the pizza guy's car, causing damage. He gets out of the car and says that he's caught his girlfriend (i.e. cheating). He and his girlfriend resume the fight. He wants her to come with him and talk. She says no, you always go too far. He picks her up and brings her toward his car. He puts her down. They continue arguing. She agrees to go with him. He puts her in the back seat of the car and he drives away.

They are still in a relationship, but there is a protective order that prevents them from seeing each other.

This was a bilingual case, and we were told to ignore everything but what was in English, be it the written translations of 911 calls or the interpreter on the stand. Several of the jurors understood the original language.

The defendant doesn't testify, which is his right. The alleged victim, the pizza guy and the sister all testify, along with a police officer, who is only responsible for part of the scene of the 911 call.

During the trial I thought the whole thing was a mess. I was sure that we were not going to convict. But then I flipped. And there were two days of arguing. And that conflict in the jury room, although not angry, was awful. I started to shut down. Two others and I were the holdouts for conviction on all counts. It was hard.

It's not like I *wanted* to convict the guy. But I felt like I was interpreting the evidence and the instructions the way that the court was asking us to.

We were split on three of the four counts, and not even close. We asked for help from the judge, and the judge asked us to reread a specific line of the instructions. Suuuuuper unhelpful. We're not dummies. 

We decided to see if overnight thoughts helped. They did not. I, for one, could not sleep. Also I felt trapped by my fellow jurors who sometimes followed instructions and sometimes did not, especially where translations were concerned. Or they'd tell me I wasn't allowed to consider something a certain way, but if they used the same methodology to make their own argument they didn't realize they were doing the same thing they'd disregarded when I was speaking. It started to feel unfair. I started to feel exceptionally miserable. I went into the last day of deliberation super bummed.

We turned in our votes and the judge asked us return to the jury room to deliberate further. I actually gave her angry eyes. Especially when she said that if we needed guidance, to ask. That made me so mad because that was total performative bullshit. Her help was proven to be unhelpful before.

We went back. I said swear words, and shared that this case was too complicated to be tried as a single trial, my frustration about all of the conflicting evidence, and that we couldn't even start over and decide which pieces of evidence were valid for the four counts. On these things we all agreed. The person who I disagreed with most said we had to have an open mind. I calmly explained that I'd been on her side until we started deliberating, and that was a large example of me having an open mind. One guy got super passionate and started smacking the post-it board. There were disagreements over whether, in thinking about false imprisonment regarding the man picking the woman up, you could consider anything that happened before (like that the guy had just driven into another guy's car and loudly said that he'd caught his girlfriend cheating with him). 

The whole thing went down in flames. Mistrial on three counts, except for the hit and run.

In the past six weeks I've had Covid, my mom died and I had to clean out her apartment, our beloved friends were here (that was the good part), and then my vacation was truncated by two weeks of jury duty.

It's too much, man. I want some normalcy.

The Blue Window Craze

Lately I've been thinking about blue glass. Blue window glass, specifically. In my hometown there were a number of houses that had blue glass, usually in a solarium. Not the whole house. The town's main period of growth was the 1930s to the 1950s.

I figured that our friend Paul Lukas would know. Anything that I think about he's already thought about in depth, so I asked. He didn't know it was a thing. So I sent him this photo, and then I started digging. It's so good. I haven't found anything that really explains why early 20th Century houses have blue glass, but there certainly were lots in the 1870s due, in large part, to a guy named General Pleasonton, and another guy named Dr. Ponza.

Pleasanton started the fire, so to speak, in 1876, in his address to the Philadelphia Society for Promoting Agriculture. The reprint of his presentation was printed on blue paper with blue ink. He attributed healing powers of all kinds to bathing in blue light. Is your pig poorly? Blue light.

One of my favorite quotes attributed to Pleasanton: "Boys with unsatisfactory legs, and girls with more tremors than are necessary or useful....and persons afflicted in a vague but objectionable way, and mysteriously described as invalid, all became suddenly healthy and strong after taking a few panes of blue glass."

Then came Seth Pancoast, later one of the founding members of Theosophy:

By 1877, blue glass was a craze. It was big in Watsonville, California.

And then eventually there were the detractors:

Poems:

And even the Blue Glass Schottische. A colleague from the forklift factory was kind enough to play it for me on the piano. Check back here later for an audio recording.

By 1889 blue glass was relegated to the trash heap with its fellow fads of the past, like crazy quilts and roller skates.

Roller skates have come back into fashion many times, as have crazy quilts. Is it time for the rebirth of the blue glass craze? Oh right. Science.

Father's Day 2025

One of my favorite sounds, back in the day, was of my dad at his typewriter. It was his weapon of choice, and I guess that might be where I get my love of writing and storytelling. Fueled by disgruntlement he would smite the keys with his index fingers, serving up nasty letters intended to make himself feel like a warrior.

He used carbon paper, and he always saved his favorite letters. I found this duplicate left in my mom's files.

Happy Father's Day

Bob Hitler

Day 2 of jury selection passed with some folks being de-selected and some folks being interviewed and no final selection of jurors being made. I am one of the few people who have not experienced the thing that is alleged to have happened, so I'm probably a prize pig.

Meanwhile, the world is just going to shit, I believe. The president is dismantling FEMA and has deployed Marines to LA without reason, after a small number of ICE protests went awry. Yes, that's serious, but the nimrods deployed without support because there is no plan. Those Marines slept on the floor without food or anything to do and the government is blanket deporting all manner of people without due process while declaring them all terrorists or rapists or whatever. 

Meanwhile, the president's lack of knowledge brought something back to light: they quasi-renamed various military bases that were previously named after Confederate soldiers *back* to the same names, after having being renamed by the Biden administration from Confederate names to neutral names, like Fort Liberty. So Fort Bragg is again Fort Bragg, but named after a different guy named Bragg. Mrguy says it's like renaming Fort Hitler after Bob Hitler. You know, not *that* Hitler.

Better Days

Today is just one of those days. After a few of those weeks. Thank goodness for friend visits (M&R are here from NY) because that's why I'm not bugged by today.

So first I had Covid. Then it was taking so long to go away. But once I got that call from my sister and my mom ended up dying the adrenaline just scared the bejabbers out of Covid. And, you know, my mom died. And I had to get my mom's apartment emptied, which was so much work.

However, we've had a week with our dear friends, and that has been super lovely. The timing could not have been better. The validation of being surrounded by loving people who have your back and think your mom was pretty shitty and have had a mom like that and came out the other side and can talk about it being better after awhile? So good.

But mrguy, who feels shitty about this, told me that I probably wouldn't get called for jury duty when I got a notice that told me to appear on the last day of our friends' visit. And for some reason I listened to him and didn't get a postponement because I am lazy. And I did get called, and I am Juror 6 and will have to spend more time at the courthouse tomorrow. But I have an out. I would be a good juror but I have reasons.

And the three oranges that I was expecting were mistakenly cut off the orange tree by the tree guys today, despite the clear instructions of mrguy. To paraphrase Elizabeth Clare Prophet, what tree has done, tree can do. Honestly, I expected those oranges not to make it to maturity but I expected deer to do it, not dudes.

Tomorrow, my last day of vacation, I report at 10:30.

June 7, 2016

A throwback from fb, 2016:

"Celebrity dreams are the best! Last night I dreamed that Chris Isaak tried to get me to wear clown shoes and bumblebee antennae on the stage. I told his roadies "I wear street shoes on the stage and clown shoes on the street!! I'm a MUSICIAN, motherfucker!!!" Please vote today, everyone."

Done

And I am done. This is how we started out, after the work I did yesterday:

My nephew came to help. 

Mostly we were using luggage movers to convey items from the apartment, through the memory care neighborhood, and often past people in bulky wheelchairs who were doing an activity. Every trip involved asking someone to let us out (it's a locked community) and let us back in. Anything can set the residents  off, so there's a weight that comes with every trip through the activity room. One bright spot was that there was a woman who I hadn't previously met, who wandered into the apartment and began saying in French that she was cold. I got to use a few vocabulary words that I still had available to me.

The neph took two giant truckloads of stuff to our house. And got to see his uncle, who is doing great on his chemo.

Then he took apart the big sofa for the guys (who still hadn't arrived). Late in the game I remembered that someone in the community had offered a different kind of dolly. This was a game changer. After we loaded the bed onto this thing for the guys, the neph took a truckload of stuff to our house and dropped it in the driveway for us, and went off.

The guys still hadn't arrived. They were looking for hand truck rentals, and it's the end of the month. I shared the happy news of the floor dolly, and they made it back to the apartment. It took two shakes after the prep we did.

Then I was alone. I had a date with filth, soaking more dried food puddles off of the ground and splatters off the baseboards. Then I managed to get every single thing onto the luggage mover, including a bag with all of the brooms, toilet brushes, plungers, etc. I duct taped that thing closed.

It now looked like this:

I ran into the person who signed us up at this joint. Gave her the keys. We walked out to the elevator together, and she reminded me that I had one more item in the apartment -- a toilet riser. Gross! She gave me the keys back. I put them in my purse.

I got downstairs, got everything into Tiger Brown, and was just about to take the last load to the dumpster when this roll of paper towels escaped. I was ridiculously tired. Had to clean it up, go to the apartment and -- have someone let me into her apartment because my purse was in the car. Did the walk of shame with the toilet riser through the activity room full of people who were being wheeled in to dinner. Out to the dumpster again, turned in the keys and finally I got to drive home. Almost there, I pulled over and bought some Guatemalan grape soda. Mrguy helped me load the stuff into the garage (I could barely walk by this point) and I flopped on the sofa. Wrote my sisters a text: "It's all done. Even whatever you want to ask me about? I did that."

I keep waking up and asking myself what horrible task I have to accomplish today and the answer is NOTHING. I kinda can't believe it.

And We're Out?

Today is supposed to be the day we exit my mom's apartment. It's oddly stressful, but it's almost over. On Tuesday and Wednesday our main caregiver and I cleaned out closets and made bags of trash and bags for Goodwill. A dear friend whose mom lives next door to mine also helped us the other day, clearing out Mom's clothes and taking 5 bags to Goodwill. We encouraged her to take anything for her mom.

Yesterday was gross. I listened to an audiobook about the Chinese men who were on the Titanic (soothing, but wonky) while soaking grime off the closet floor (super disgustoid -- a combination of "fruit of the past" and dust). Behind the antique dresser I found evidence of mom's behavior -- the missing drawer pulls that she took off the dresser repeatedly, and broken ceramic triangles. These were pieces of soup bowls, brightly coated with dried butternut squash soup. She broke things when she was upset, and I swept up many shards of discontent yesterday.

And finally yesterday there was a visit to the mortuary to settle up our accounts. But along with the bad, there was the sweet moment of seeing a photo of our friend and her mother, with her mother looking cute in one of my mom's cozy sweaters. It was her birthday.

Today our caregiver's son is helping extract the big sofa and bed, but I think he's not very experienced in this. He is bringing his cousin and some workers from Home Depot. My nephew is coming to help me get the smaller stuff over to our house. I have a feeling that he's going to end up helping oversee.

I should have paid for movers for them. 

So worried.

But we're getting out of there somehow today. 

And then the next chapter of my life begins.

Fingers crossed

A Post About The Sun

 

The force is gone. I always wondered what it would feel like, and I hoped that the force would leave us. In fact I bought a Magic 8-Ball just so I could ask it “Will my mom die soon?” But she persisted. As her abilities diminished, her pride in the strengths she still had were obvious. While she could still summon a sentence, she told you how strong she was and maybe even made a fist or a bicep to prove her point. She also hit, bit, spit and used *all* of the words that were banned from my own childhood vocabulary.

 

She was once an elegant woman who cared what others thought. She both made me take tennis lessons and also chose the color of my skin for those lessons “You will either wear panty hose or let me put tanner on your legs” – *that* lady left the scene ten years ago and in her place was a beast of increasing cantankerousness.

 

On Thurday, I wrote to a dear friend who coined the phrase “She lives for the hate” about my mom. I said “My mom died. What do I do with the 8 Ball? “Inconceivable!” she replied. ”I will miss that cranky old lady”. So will we all. She was 97.

 

It took four children, three 24-hour caregivers, a memory care facility and drugs to power the force. The results were tough to experience. I think I felt a certain amount of pride in how well I dealt with the barbs, both physical (poking me in my fat parts and laughing at me) and mental (constant haranguing about whatever she wanted and threats if you didn’t give it to her). In a way there was an artistry to her awfulness,. And although I wish that I’d spent my 50s differently, I am proud of how we cared for her and I have a lifetime of stories, and memories of countless Saturday lunches prepared for her and her beloved caregiver. Those we all enjoyed, at least.

 

The force is gone. She is at peace, and in these early days the world seems big and scary. I have slipped out of my customary life's orbit and need to choose my own gravity now. I want to be at peace as well.

Recovering Slowly

I had a long list of things I wanted to do today. But after breakfast my body hurt. Took a Covid test (negative) and went back to bed. 

Mrguy is down for the count again, and his weight is down to 176, cause I was not keeping on top of things while I had Covid and I'm currently not doing so well. 

However I went outside after my nap and had a beautiful few minutes watering in the back yard. I was beyond surprised to see that my climbing Cecile Brunner was covered in blossoms. I'm finally going to have a thriving Cecile Brunner, and that fills me with such joy. The scent of those roses and old sweet freesias are the scent of my childhood. Also, it's a windy day and there were at least 5 limes on the ground near the tree. The lime tree is enjoying my watering, and is very productive. And as I have mentioned previously, the orange tree is producing for the first time since we moved here in 2013 and I cannot wait for our first oranges. My hands smell like limes and roses.

I rested for a while and watched part of a documentary about "The Day the Clown Cried", which I used to be obsessed with in the 1990s. Boy was it not interesting after the decades-long wait! 

After my rest I wanted to make something yummy for mrguy using the chicken stock I made yesterday. I took the chicken that I picked off the bones and added it to an otherwise vegetarian soup recipe from the NYT, and earlier in the week I had frozen some small bits of salsa from last week's burrito order and I have been patting myself on the back about having done that. I added some of the tomatillo salsa to the soup, and it needed some brightening so I squeezed some lime juice into it, courtesy of the wind.

Those are the things that occupied my Saturday. Plus a little Top Chef, and a bit of sumo.

Oohhhhh! Covid!

I was so confused by the fact that my symptoms felt worse every day. And the stabbing sensations around my abdomen and thighs and ankles, and the sore finger bones. So I took a test to bed with me and ... Two Lines! It was Covid. Explains everything.

So there you go. The next goal was to try not to get mrguy sick. Here's what I wrote while I was in bed:

It's not as bad as the first time, but it's certainly no fun. I've had about two days of rolling around in bed. Pin pricks around my gut. My ankles have been really weak, which makes navigating the house hard. And muscle fatigue. A mantra (spoken) of "I feel so shitty". Occasionally calling out for my mama, which is sad. Then wrestling with that. I mean if I were sick, even if it was end-stage mean old mom, she'd go into mom mode and want to care for me.

I was a little pissed that for all the shivering I didn't have a fever. Until I finally warmed up and had a fever of 101.5, which felt like an acknowledgement that I truly was sick (as if the positive Covid test wasn't enough).

Day 3 after testing.

This morning I felt a lot better. I site-swapped with mrguy so that I could get my meds and get dressed. I watered in the aku room because it's gonna be warm today. Boy kitten joined me on the bed for a little cuddle while I look at fb. He purrs so loudly. And then eventually gets overstimulated and has to bite or leave or something. He's been a big help to his mama, considering how awful I've felt. BTW, I got my pills and sat down. And realized I need to go straight back to bed. I really want to go outside and prune.

Day 4 after testing.

I still would like to go outside. Motivating to do it is another matter entirely. I went upstairs this morning to take my pills and put on some clothes. By the time I came back downstairs where I've been staying I was pooped. The good news today is that many of my purchases came in the mail. I bought some Bautz'ner senft just in case of tariffs. And some smoked paprika, also. And some silvervine sticks for my little man, because they come from Asia and he loves them. And I bought a bracelet which was really beautiful.

I can't smell anything right now. Anosmia is a bummer. My sense of smell is a cherished sense. And it's important for memory. So I will actively work on this as I recover from Covid. 

Day 5 after testing

This is the first day where, after having coffee, I just rolled over and went to sleep for hours. My sinuses are clear. Fewer jabbing pains. The boy kitten curled up with me after I decided to get up. That took a while to enjoy :) In the afternoon I went outside and watered. Then I experimented with the technique I learned on Youtube for reducing the depth of a neckline on a t-shirt I like. After that I labeled all of my meds with the names of the medication on the lid (as I have done with the cat's medications for a year now). And I filled my pill dispensers. Still thinking about how to repair my favorite hawaiian shirt, but that was too complicated. And now I'm resting my eyes

Day 8 after testing

Last night I still had a tiny almost invisible line on my Covid test which means -- still positive. I was up almost all day yesterday, and that was fairly miraculous. Today I woke up and felt significantly better. Like a person with a cold, not a person with Covid. Mrguy had some technical times setting up our new wireless router (probably time to replace a piece of equipment it needed to connect to) and that made me pick up my sewing. Many hours later I stopped. I repaired a pillowcase that the boy kitten has been chewing on. And I sewed a hole in the pocket of my favorite Roos Atkins coat (and reattached its tag). Along the way I found an old t-shirt from the forklift factory that bk had helped himself to a while ago. It had a big hole in between the shoulder blades, which is probably a spot that smells a lot like me. And I found a cotton glove that was just the right size, so I did an applique of the glove over the hole. That took quite a long time, which I spent also watching Lenox Hill, which is an amazingly well-told series.

And now

It is a week and a half after I first started feeling poorly and...I had forgotten that after having Covid you have fatigue. Lots of it. Tiny but mighty is coming over in a half hour to take me on a gentle walk. I'm not really looking forward to it because of the fatigue. But happy for the company.

Sluggish Wed - Fri

Today's a good day for blogging, because I'm home sick. Not sure what's going on. I woke up with a runny nose and sneezy behaviors yesterday. Then I realized that I felt sluggish. I have somewhat of a sore throat. I feel like I have a fever but don't -- a bit chilly, a bit of muscle soreness. But not even like one of my regular colds. I'm guessing I'm having some allergic response to the outdoors. My desire to do just about anything is zero.

But in perspective, it's awesome. I have not had a cold since our Caribbean cruise. Pretty good run, as someone said.

On Tuesday, Z and I went to see Suleika Jouad and Jon Batiste. I had gotten tickets from someone on the Isolation Journals page, and the seats were fantastic. The show was indescribable and Z and I had a delightful time, which we tend to do. She is one of those friends who says yes. And if she asks me to something, I also say yes. It works.

But the next day I woke up feeling punk. And here I am. Yesterday I exhausted myself by shopping for accessories for an upcoming party. And learning about turquoise jewelry and where you can go and mine your own in Arizona. Searching mrsguy only to learn that I never told the pigeon story. Searching the National Archives website for genealogical clues. Searching German newspapers for genealogical clues (who is the father of Christiana Touchy?). Is it worth getting a subscription to Archion in order to look for birth records in Lindau? Looking for letters that used to refer to Ernst Gottlob on the Gleimhaus website. I can pick out 18th century German script better than I used to -- could I possibly look again and translate some words?

Then a long nap.

And on Friday, I'm still loafing around. I actually feel worse. More of a stuffy nose, more muscle aches. More ennui. I have to do *something* today. Maybe I'll go outside and water.

One last thing -- today Prince Harry lost his bid to get a security detail. Of course there is more to the legal case than that, but the Royal House should absolutely give in, and as quietly as possible. No matter how deeply angry they are, they have chosen, by not providing security, to act as if they don't care if one of their own lives or dies. It is a bad look, and favorable public opinion is something that they will continue to need in order for the monarchy to survive.

No matter if he is a working royal or not, Prince Harry didn't choose the life he has. The monarchy required children, and this one didn't fill the mold. So what. Some day it will be proven, I fear, that the Sussexes were right to be concerned for their safety.

10 Photos

The prompt was to share ten photos I didn't have ten worthy photos in this past week to share, however:

A highlight of the week was a garden swap / earth day / SWANA collaboration at work. SWANA stands for Southwest Asia and North Africa. I decided to do my own collab with the Meow slack channel and I brought cat grass seeds for people to use in delighting their cats.

I came home with some fig cuttings.

And at the end of the day, as I was getting into my car, I found a message from the Coca Cola company: a discarded Coke can next to the parking spot where I always park, that says "Sis".

Argh

Him: I forgot to take my Neulasta after chemo

Discussion follows. I start wondering whether he can just take it anyway today. I go back to my laptop.

Him: Don't freak out.

Me: Do you know what is one of the most punchable things you can say?

Easter 2025

It's about the colors.

My plan for today was to dye some eggs. I just like color. Color makes me happy. I had saved some tablets from last year, so I was ready to go.

But first! An old old friend contacted me to ask if I wanted to pick his ume. Heckyeah! I went over to his place with a grabber and a picker and a bag. We talked for an hour, catching up on all kinds of stuff. So good! 

Here's the tree, and the haul.

I went to the Japanese market and bought shochu and rock sugar. "Getting an early start on umeshu?" said the checker. I boasted that I had just finished picking mine.

Then I did a drop off at Goodwill. Ahhhh. Been meaning to do that for a long time.

After a big shop at the supermarket and a very long chat with my sister I got to coloring the eggs. I was hoping that I would make a three-peat of making a glamorous black egg, but I couldn't make it happen. Maybe I needed fresh dye. But what I *did* make was an egg that looked exactly like a pickle. Boy kitten needed to examine it.

The day wraps up with us watching baseball on our new tv that mrguy bought while I was gone. The previous tv was quite elderly, and it seemed to have some sort of allergy to our AppleTV which caused it to periodically make a big cracking sound and go blank. We put our foot down after we watched a show where we couldn't figure out what the characters were saying at all. 

All better now, plus a slightly bigger screen with a slightly more crisp display. Not getting any younger. I'll take it!

Happy Easter, everyone.

The Prompt Was About Hands

If my mother saw my hands right now she’d scowl and point at my ripped cuticles and comment on whatever vice – chewing or gardening without gloves – must have led to their shabby appearance.

If my sister, the omnipotent one, saw my hands she’d remark on how much she disliked her own and preferred mine, something that she only confessed to me in recent years.

We compare, we see each other and ourselves in our digits, rip off our socks at Thanksgiving to reveal who did or did not have the family “porpoise toe”, and then argue about what constitutes the porpoise toe other than people knowing it when they see it but seeing it differently from one another. We do not know which ancestor begat the toe.

At a Starbucks in the former meat market in Bergen where our female ancestors were butchers, we have coffee with a distant relative who chastises, in absentia, a woman who married into the family and passed along a congenital hip ailment. My laugh was not appreciated. Was the family perfect beforehand?

My father had one finger so mighty that it could end conversations and silence the room. His hands were wide, his fingers square at the tips, on the end of normal sized fingers. The index finger, his family-famous “spatulate finger”, would smite the dinner table, perpendicular to it, for emphasis. The finger spoke.

Nobody inherited the spatulate finger. The nephew has the shape, but also an ameliorating curved nailbed from an outside genetic force. He does not wield the finger with power.

The week my hands failed, life sat up and barked orders. It expected new things and did not explain the alternatives. Gone was the ability to operate doorknobs without pain. The hands subcontracted to other bodyparts as slow healing commenced through disuse. Feet were the new tools of choice. The hands returned, changed. The price of today's ability to play music or use a stubborn remote is tomorrow's pain. I’m grateful and I’m different and I can see to the other side in new ways since the time of my original hands.

Bologna, Day 4 -- Big Finish

Yesterday was a challenge. I sat in the rain waiting for my ride, which was very cooling.

Got to the airport and they directed me to the lounge. Their airport focaccia was surprisingly tender.

There wasn't a place to sit near Air Dolomiti's gate so we all sat on the floor.

The plane took forever to get off the runway. I had a short time at Frankfurt to make my connecting flight already, and this was making me nervous. The flight attendant called ahead to let them know I was going to be late, but that's all they did for me. He told me how much time I had to work with, and wished me the best of luck. It was more time than I thought -- 40 minutes. I could not figure out from my app whether I had to go through passport control or bag checking of my carry ons. I was hoping not.

We deplaned and walked up the stairs to the terminal. I needed Z terminal and was in A. I followed the signs for Z, that suddenly disappeared. A set of 3 elevators marked Z were not in service but there were stairs next to them so I went to the second floor. Nothing there but a TSA station that was not in use. The elevator directed me *down* to Z.

I asked for help at Lufthansa, which was supposedly my airline, being serviced by United. No, we can't notify United that you're in the airport. The Z signs pointed in the direction I came from. Suddenly they pointed the opposite direction. I was getting really wound up but was determined not to cry. Another lady told me to walk toward the end of the part of the airport I was in, go outside of the terminal and up an escalator. When I saw some police, I asked them for help. They sent me back the way I'd come from and told me to turn right and then go through passport control. Passport control? Holy cow. Ok, their directions worked and there were three open kiosks at passport control. I found the Z signs again and walked briskly in my platform crocs, cursing myself for not wearing my Hokas. 

Finally, at gate Z16 some station agents far away called my name. I started running on a moving sidewalk to get there faster. They yelled that I could stop running because the plane was waiting for me. I threw my fists in the air and yelled "Wooooo!!!!!!!"

After that everything was fine.

My bag didn't make it on the plane but it's on its way here from Frankfurt. Someone will bring it to the house.

My boys were happy to see me. I missed them, but was trying to be a big girl and do for girlself.

So ends Bologna.

Bologna, Day 3

This was my presentation day. I was asked to speak early in the day. And then I had a few interviews with forklift bloggers. They all wanted to know about AI and the future of forklifts. I told them all that I was not qualified to speak about it for the company, but I can tell you that in my personal life I love how machine learning can transcribe documents.

My hosts took us out to lunch, which was nice. I had tortellini con brodo -- tortellini in broth. I had hoped to eat this at some point. It was delicious. Taut, meaty filling with nutmeg, bobbing around in broth. The son of our host wrote his selections on his hand. So excellent:

The talk went well, but was complicated. The man translating had a lot to work with. I paused occasionally to let him catch up. He thanked me later, telling me that he'd never had someone take care of him like that while translating. He's great at it, even though that's not what he really does for work. I made sure to praise him cause it was a LOT. There was a small gathering of people at the talk, and they asked lots of questions and were appreciative.

I had one more interview, and then back to the hotel. More nun-watching and packing. The hotel is on the outskirts of town, so I skipped dinner every night.

I love Italian Food Network and I love prunes, but this serving suggestion for prunes -- a prune and prawn skewer devoid of other flavors, is not a delightful thought.

Bologna, Day 2 -- The Delight of Popular Culture

Safely ensconced in my personal sauna, I napped and turned on the tv and found some sort of American Hallmark Channel movie about a woman who meets a wealthy guy who helps her save her dog rescue, or somesuch, which was good background while I did some of my not-very-good embroidery.

More napping, eating my leftovers, turning on the tv to find Italian Food Network. Joe Bastianich and some gigantic meaty fox with lots of hair help rescue failing restaurants, including one called La Principessa. It is owned by a woman so glorious, so much herself that she cannot be unseen. The food is apparently inedible, and her manner is completely off the wall. The only subtitles were in my mind, but it was apparent that the standard menu had no abbreviations for the cooks, and she often took them longhand, with whatever descriptions. Damn, this was good. In the end they took down her beautiful old neon street sign and replaced it with something unattractive, but at least they toned La Principessa down a notch herself.

Not to be outdone, the Italian Food Network then provided me a marathon of short shows where some basketball playing nuns prepare brown Italian food. No drama, only competence. It soothed me to sleep.

Bologna Day 2, Part 2 -- Eyes Bigger Than Arm Strength

After the church, which was an unexpected attraction, I headed off to the antique market. It straddled two sides of a cobblestone street. It was like any other flea market, but with stuff from Italy. 

This object reminded me of Suleika Jouad.

I took photos mostly surrepticiously because people do not want you to. There were Vasarely prints in a few of the stalls. Lately I've been of the opinion that the guy made too much work. Perhaps I should pack up a bunch from here and take it to Italy.

I bought some overpriced earrings, glad that the "more is more" of the 1980s is back somehow. They delight me. There were interesting bits of ephemera, house accessories (light fixtures, etc.). 

And I impulse-bought 10 extra heavy cut glass glasses for 20 euros. Basically an awkward bag of rocks that I then had to haul around with me.

This whole scene was a *lot* for me. I had flown to Italy by myself and was now navigating a flea market I'd picked out to visit. I had to sit down on some pigeon droppings and give myself a rest. This kid was happy-screaming, and chasing a pigeon who didn't seem to tire of the game himself. This went on for quite a while. Note: Bologna is full of screaming children who sneeze a lot. I wonder when I will reap the harvest of doom. I was only so willing to mask, since I was hot and tired and feeling oppressed while also thoroughly enjoying myself and doing an inner high five for how high-functioning I was being.

From there I decided to track down the perfume that is signature to Bologna. This was the last time that I was able to navigate with even the help of Google Maps. But I made it. The saleswoman sprayed it all over me, and then made me turn around and sprayed it on my back. I really liked it -- kinda cedar-y, woodsy, but feminine. I would have wanted to buy it for the Rev and I to share, but I don't wear that much perfume. Hubba hubba, though.

I had recommendations for lunch, but ate at a sports bar, reminiscent of Sam Wo's, in that it was a room over a room over a final room, which is where I sat. The servers were all women of a certain age (college?) wearing soccer outfits. Asian-Italian. The room they directed me to was empty, but soon filled. I was trying to eat light because of my recent stomach upset. It was pretty much my modus operandi during my stay. So I had rigatoni alla norma and some grilled vegetables. I know it was a simple thing, but both were outstanding. I took half home for dinner and ended up eating the whole thing with my fingers.

Suitably rested, I decided to find some vermouth and the Medieval museum. That's when I started to misunderstand the directions and walk in circles. My rocks were so heavy. I was hot and tired and carried a coat, so I felt like I'd squandered my one day with my poor decision making. I found the nearest large street and hailed a cab.

Back at the hotel I was pretty cozy except for the fact that the room was hot. As in Germany, they don't turn on the air conditioning until a certain calendar date. But also there is the noise. Hotel Maggiore is so nice. The people are gracious. It's sweet. But the sound is fucking punitive. During the week there is earth being moved. But that's child play. Nearby is a hospital with a helipad. And so many ambulances. And street noise, and then an indescribable constant loud grinding machine sound. It sounds as if a cement truck is idling beneath your window, but what it is is a machine boring a hole under the city. I kid you not. And because it's stifling in the room, you need to get up close and personal with the street noise by propping open the window. The first night I kept the window closed and wet a washcloth to put on my forehead (I also had a headache from too much wine on the plane), but on Day 2 I braved the noise.