Another Painting

If this painting weren't 55" x 43" I would consider bidding on it.

I have been in that room and know the view. It's a small corner adjacent to the modest kitchen in the house where I used to pose for artists some mornings. It fascinates me that Charles would paint such a grand-sized and dreamy painting of such an austere space. I remember coming in for a gig one day, and in that kitchen he was serving a pork chop to another man, in his bathrobe. I remember the pork chop, a cast iron pan and a striped terry robe.

Houses of that era just post earthquake often had a steep wooden staircase to the downstairs, with a galvanized pipe serving as the handrail. I remember the sweet smell of raw wood rising from the painting studio as I went downstairs, and the striped curtain on a thin cotton rope offering a bit of modesty as I changed into my own robe in the closet. A bare bulb with a beaded nickel pull chain hung overhead in that tiny space.

Few people who had a relationship with the kitchen in the painting are still alive. It makes me feel as if it would be a sin if I didn't buy it, as if I owe Charles and the painting something for knowing it's out there and disconnected from its context.

Or it's ok. My thoughts are just facts, and what Charles meant by painting this setting may have been something else entirely.

Probably gonna let it go.

The Last Potato Pancake

At one point while I was driving around on Saturday, I got a text from my ex-boss that she was having a really really final day at the restaurant and a final toast. I rsvped yes. Then I got a text from the former GM asking if I was going and whether I'd see if I could rally the ladies. None of them were available, but then a plan formed where a bunch of us who worked together circa 1990-1993 would share a final meal.

But first I had an afternoon date with my girlfriend and neighbor at the wine and dog bar. Very fun to catch up and drink wine and pet dogs.

Sunday was delightful, with a walk with a different girlfriend. It was good to get out in nature-ish. She showed me a beach where we could swim if we have another heat wave. Then I had a bit of a rest and went out to the final meal. It was fun and loud and tasty. The GM and I share a name and he'd brought his daughter and a son who also shares his/our name. It's been so long since I'd been in a room with so many people with our name. Someone would say the name and three of us would turn our heads. Reminded me of Friday nights where there were three of us. I had to change my waitress name on my tickets (usually a letter) because GM had claimed that letter.

Anyhoo, I had my final potato cheese pancake with a side salad. Eaten with my hands, rolled up together in bites. It was a perfect potato cheese pancake. Not because it was the final one, and in fact I had a kinda sub-par one a month ago. It is just that it was perfect.

I took the GM and his kids to public transit. So he heard my latest podcast listen -- a history of women in hip hop. He knows how little I know about the subject and cracked up that I was a) interested b) listening to something so academic about music. I'm back in my own lane now, by the way, listening to the story of people who collect eiderdown from duck nests on an island in Norway.

On Monday, after a walk with my tiny but mighty friend, I had a thought. A good one, not like most of my thoughts. It's been weighing on me that I want to get rid of my 19 typewriters, but didn't know how. Some are enormous and not in good shape. In a flash of brilliance I remembered the reuse / recycle place that's near work.

This is what a dozen-ish typewriters look like in Tiger Brown. And on a cart. I feel accomplished!

While I was cleaning the garage I was inspired to find a home for my clown painting. I put it on the free table, making a lady at work very happy.

And just a few more pictures from the week. Mrguy sent me this photo of boy kitten relaxing on a pillow near his Clayton Bailey jug, enjoying his window.

Also there was a shipwreck at the ob/gyn.

Out and About

Today's another 3 day weekend, which I'm really beginning to enjoy.

I decided to finally buy a plant stand that I'd seen on Craigslist for a few months. The seller was a) a woman b) super nice c) not crazy. We had a really nice chat in the morning heat.

Since I was in one of the old neighborhoods, I decided to go to Foster's Freeze. Hadn't been in years. They have so much stuff! Who knew there was a Red Bull slushie? That should not be such a thing, but I imagine it's pretty popular.

I had a small vanilla cone, dipped. It immediately started bursting through its chocolate barrier and making for the sidewalk. Warm and relatively quiet in the shade, I ate as much and as quickly as I could. It reminded me of sitting half out of the passenger seat of a rental car in the parking lot of Leonard's Malasadas.

Then I brought my new friend home and put existing plants in it, as a proof of concept. I think it will work, although my pots are mostly the wrong sizes. Also you need to work from the ground up in order to get the pots in. 

It's a thing. 

But I think I'll enjoy making it nice.

My Silver Forkliftaversary

This week was my 25th anniversary at the forklift factory. If longevity has meaning, I’ve done something. Mainly I feel such gratitude for having a job that I still love after all of these years. And gratitude that I get to do it with an amazing team of people who I like to spend time with. And for so many nice people who I get to work with less often but I admire. And even for the people who make my life more difficult, because those little effers teach me patience. Because of Hammerslag I have:

-- Visited 11 countries, and worked in museums in Europe and Asia

-- Seen (and smelled!) the the original Blob in the conservation lab at the Academy museum

-- Had the opportunity to do a hundred hours of oral history with fascinating people

-- Had great days in our booth at the forklift show, interacting with fans of forklifts and experiencing the joy that the company gives to people who like forklifts

-- Bought a house — Before the Slag we were so broke. Our entire household income in 2000 was 19,000 (including the three months I worked at the Slag)

-- Received the great gift of my cat boy, Kirby, who came to me through a Slag connection

-- Had great health insurance, which has given me at least a year and a half of extra time with my husband

-- Enjoyed the many fruits of the free table. I give, I receive, I learn, I judge.

A Fantastic Sunday

Lots going on in the background, but I can't complain when I'm listening to slinky bossa nova style Japanese music with mrguy and looking outside at the city far away. The clouds above it make it resemble the Cascades. 

Check out Chiaki Naomi, people! Super relaxing.

Prior to that we were picking out plane tickets for my solo trip to New York for Thanksgiving. Mrguy was invited but doesn't want to go, nor does any one of my friends. Whatever. I am going to NY to spend gobs of money and do one of my bucket list items. I feel untethered from finance because this is literally something I wanted to do before I die, a dream trip, so I am looking at tasting menus at expensive restaurants and all sorts of things that I would not necessarily want to do. But I'm pretty sure that the people who I am crewing with would not want to do those things, so I'm planning for togetherness on Thanksgiving Day and then fending for myself.

And prior to that, we spent a little time in the garage, doing triage. We loaded up several boxes of random stuff in Tiger Brown for me to take to Goodwill. I said goodbye to my dad's little chest that sat on the side of his favorite chair. It was a deep cherry color, and until it went to live at my mom's house, had zero flaws in its finish. The ring pulls on the upper drawer had a distinctive sound that I can't forget but can't quite describe. The upper drawer held all of the coasters you would need to keep everything in the living room pristine. One lower held sable brushes that I would use to dust the semi-precious stone flowers on the Chinese lacquer screens, and the other held our Christmas stockings through the year. You wonder how I came to be a historian? I can mentally walk through my entire childhood house and tell you what's in almost every drawer, because someone before me told its story.

Oh wow, the indignities that that chest endured in my mom's care in her final years. It sat next to her bed, so its finish was removed in various places by potions prescribed and spit into the air (children's Tylenol, for one), and her nightly water glass and juices. It's almost unimaginable that my mom's furniture would have a water ring on it. At one point she broke part of the chest. I glued it back together, an activity that I found completely satisfying. I polished it with diaper paste as a final tribute on Christmas 2022.

But yesterday? I rolled it to the curb at Goodwill and drove away before they could complain about my bringing them furniture, and I am free. Every one of these moments letting go and then actually jettisoning items carves out a bit more freedom. I memorialize them here, and then *poof* I don't have to feel bad about them.

Then I went to the car wash. Three color foam for nine bucks, as you know. A friend from school says she goes for the cheapest one color wash. I told her I file that nine bucks under "entertainment". The car wash seems so extravagant to me. More extravagant than going to New York.

Flaco and Me

There really is no Flaco and Me, but I thought it would sound good.

In the day, in the college town where I colleged, there was a bar called The Club. As I remember it, not as it was, it was on a corner, where the sidewalk ended and the dirt started. It was an old man bar -- dark wood, dry oak floors, two pool tables whose overhead scoring abacus (what else would you call it?) hung with dust. Around the rest of the room were booths, and a back alcove held a perpetual poker game that you could only get in on by invitation.

The Club served minors.

I really only went there a few times, because I didn't want to get busted, but the best times were on weekends. Not sure how, but a guy I knew from class invited me out for a beer one Saturday. As I recall he was from the Central Valley and was studying city planning. Wore a light blue pearl button shirt, which spoke volumes about where he stood, and what his roots were, despite what he was learning at college. He was intellectually provocative, shall we say.

Anyhoo, he hipped me to what I was missing that day as he bought tokens from the bartender and plugged them in the jukebox. That was the day I learned about Flaco Jimenez and the sound of accordion. Damn. In 1983 accordion was considered desperately uncool, but here was this tremendous music spitting at my notion of what it was. That was a great day.

After I moved away the next year, I went up to school a few times on a weekend and sat at the bar with the old guys. They put their dentures on the bar, drank short mixed drinks and watched baseball. I didn't want to interrupt, so I don't think I got to listen to Flaco again in the space where I became acquainted with him, but I never forgot the name.

A few years later, I was living over an Irish bar. I'd briefly played ukulele and sang harmonies in a band that played a combination of pop originals, 70's Americana covers and Texas border conjunto covers. My bandmates brought up Flaco's name again. Shortly after I was tossed out of said band (long story), Flaco came to town. Not only that, he was set to play at the cultural center that was next door to the building I lived in. Faaaantastic! The venue didn't have a backstage, so when Flaco needed to warm up he went into the walkway behind the building and did so. My apartment was on the first floor, so I quietly jimmied my window up a few inches and had a private concert. 

It was divine. Thank you, Flaco. The concert inside an hour or so later couldn't have been as good as these few moments I had you to myself.

Sweet Magnolias. Those Bitches!

We're watching whatever season this is of Sweet Magnolias. I have enjoyed this show even though it's a sweetly terrible throwback. We decided to return to it after a long absence. For some reason I care about these characters, but...

Those bitches!! Your best friend puts on a surprise Halloween wedding for herself and her man. You two get so bent out of shape that the day after your best friend's wedding, when she's up in the clouds with happiness and returns to her home, you sit on her porch, laying in wait, and then drag her for two pages of dialogue about how you two didn't get to participate in the planning of the wedding.

Well, characters on a show based on a book that could have been better, you probably participated in and were happy about the first wedding to that guy Bill, who they killed off at the end of this episode so that we can all come together in sadness. I will not be sorry to see Will Wheaton's (correction: Chris Klein's) squinty face struggling through the terrible dialogue he's given.

Mrguy says he smells another death. This show loves a death.

My prediction: Dana Sue's hot husband whatsisface is next. He tripped while helping Coach Cal move into his new wife's house. Bet he has ALS, which is just the kid of lingering disease they give a man on these shows.

Can I still label this "television"? I'm too old to know. "Content"?

Whatever

First Anniversary-ish

Today's my parents' anniversary. The first one with both of them deceased. In honor of the occasion, one of my sisters sent us all a classic photo of the two of them.

It is one of the nicest photos of the two of them. I kept it on a table in the kitchen for many years.

When Mom had to stay with us for a few weeks during the pandemic, we would walk out of the kitchen and past the photo at bedtime. She would pull over, and pause to turn it face down.

Every 

Single

Day.

And that's what I see when I look at this photo. 

I also see heads. My parents had heads.

Prompt 347, About Senses

Prompt 347

On a Friday in the coldest summer since 1999

I do Pilates over zoom with my friend and trainer, with me in my tiny home office and her in Nevada. She gives me an excellent laugh, describing how she and others on her "I'm moving to Henderson" group responded to someone asking whether there was at least a cooling breeze in the evenings. For those not in the know, apparently it's like living in a convection oven. Also described as "The day is like pointing a blowdryer at yourself on high and night is like pointing a blowdryer at yourself on low." I ended our time together with more energy, less gas, and a reminder that she appreciates all of my weird stuff and I'm to leave it to her when I die. "Just put the clown shoes by the front door".

I drink the leftover coffee. I wish it were hotter but am too lazy to walk ten steps to the microwave.

The sound of a train in the distance -- it's blowing its horn as it moves through our city. I love the sound of a train so much that mrguy and I used to listen to train records when we were first together. "Steam or diesel?" we'd say, choosing an appropriate sound for the occasion.

A week later, I'm cleaning up this text and hear a loud train horn in the distance.

Summer Like Winter

This morning I woke up, came upstairs and it was blowin' like stink, as our old sailor friend used to say. This is the best summer ever, weather-wise. The middle of the country is suffering with heat, and it is dragging the marine layer over our part of the world like a cozy blanket. The little boy cat is in his window, surveying the neighborhood, and mrguy is dressed for cool weather and working in the garage.

The junk folks are coming today to take away much of my mom's old furniture. The tyranny of chairs. Bye chairs! After they leave us we'll have a tiny splash of room in the garage where we can do further triage.

In the meantime, mrguy has still been blown off by the allergy department and will rattle their cage. He had a brain MRI yesterday, and will have an electroencephalograph tomorrow. Hoping they find nothing, but we still have to figure out why his thighs itch and he loses control of parts of his body when he's being infused.

Tomorrow is filming in the archives. Man, do these people like forklift designs! I have to find an outfit and do my nails and think of things to say, in case they ask. They might just want my hands to point at designs. You never know. I am the designated pointer.

 

But There's More

I know a little boy who is waaaay cozy today. There is something about this particular blanket that came from my mom's apartment that is even better than the previous blanket. Who knew? He sees it, he meows at it, he gives it two licks and then hops on or next to it. They have a thing going on.

In other news, I am no longer afraid that he will die from eating a salad plate-sized hole in one of my sweaters the other day while Cack and Blick were here. I believe that today he pooped out the last of it. Sheesh. Then he begged me to chase him around the house. Then he was happy.

It's a quiet day here at the manse. I've been doing some genealogy and laundry and I might decide to have some fun repairing that sweater hole. I feel like creating something other than food (although I like that too).

The update on mrguy is that he's spoken with his oncologist and neurologist. The news is basically positive. He's in remission and the doctor is going to halt chemo until we know what's going on. The doctor suggested that we go to Hawaii in the interim, because they need tourists right now. So basically we went from mrguy is going to die of a stroke to 'okole maluna. The neurologist says he did not have a stroke, but we want an MRI. He only had Herceptin when he was infused on Tues. He's still feeling the effects, so he's trying to stay awake and lively until baseball time later in the day.

Genealogy is going well. I am deep into the O'Neil family of Navan. I'm figuring out their scenario, but I'm still unsure of whether Mathew O'Neil is my great great grandfather. Many signs point to yes:

• My great grandmother was an O'Neil
• Last place in Ireland was in Navan
• A Matthew / Mathew O'Neil was the godparent of one of the children in my family
• Oldest / one of oldest children is named Mathew
• Family story is that the O'Neils were millers. M. O'Neil of Navan was a dealer of corn and oats
• Bridget was insane and her intake docs say that her father was also
• Mathew was in Mullingar Asylum for a while. They let him out. Shortly afterward he drowned himself in a barrel of his own making

Good times! If you like family history, anyway.

What If It's Ok? 2025 Edition

This is what I have to remind myself on days like today.

Yesterday mrguy was in the middle of his infusion. We were feeling great after another clean scan and I'd gone to work, which is about 3 blocks away from where he gets his treatments. I got a call asking me to come over there. They couldn't tell me what was happening.

Today it is as if nothing has happened, but at the time it looked like he was having a stroke mid-infusion. His mind got jumbled while he was listening to a podcast, then he lost his ability to control his right hand. He took his left hand and rang the bell. When the nurse arrived he was unable to respond to commands. It passed quickly. 

He'd had a small version of this during the previous infusion. And after the last infusion and the one before it he had large fevers.

He took an ambulance and I took the car to the ER. Our issues seemed less than everyone else's, so it took a long time for him to be seen and attended to. He had two brain and neck CTs and then they sent us home. In the meantime the guy next to us who was sucking all of the attention in the ER was complaining about how racist it was that nobody was seeing him. They eventually arranged home health care and transport for him and he got to go home. There was nearby moaning. And the guy who went home was replaced by a lady with congestive heart failure who needed her meds tweaked. This sounded familiar from my dad's problems with the same thing. Except she needed a translator, who was a family member and later a professional translator. I was pretty impressed that they found an Amharic translator that quickly. Once I knew the language I was able to look up where she was from: Ethiopia. If only she'd been at the rehab facility where my mom went those two times. Everybody working over there was from Ethiopia. Reminded me of the kindness of all of the great nurses, CNAs and doctors who worked there. And out of thin air I was even able to remember the name of the doctor: Biranhu. One of the prettiest names I've ever heard. Anyway this inadvertent pocket photo sums up my state of mind.

I found us some dinner in the cafeteria, which was quite perfect. Turkey sandwich for him, caprese for me, and some upscale chips. I was very surprised to see that there were two different kinds of cracklins at a hospital cafeteria.

We were able to get home around 8:30. And now we wait. He had half an infusion and a stroke-like thing that only happens when he's getting the infusion that saves his life, and now we really don't know what to do next.

At least he doesn't have a brain tumor.

Doing More Things

I guess I've been making up for lost time. Last weekend I decided that there were three positions in every day off, and I did things in each of them.

Saturday I had my Irish genealogy group.

Then I went to a bar in the middle of the day and saw my first band play for the first time in 30+ years. It was great to see everyone. I had hugs with all parties and a nice conversation with my old boyfriend. I've learned that most of us can relate to each other via our parents and their problems. Turns out that his mom has been a "vegetable" for ten years. His dad is 90 and is taking care of her. He mentioned that he had a friend with Stage IV cancer and that he could introduce him to mrguy.

Then off to the worst movie I've ever seen, Bikini Planet (2002). I got my favorite spot outside the theater. Shot on video, in black and white and color, on a $3,000 budget in local parks and such, Bikini Planet follows astronauts who go to Planet Boobula or somesuch. The Boobulans need more silicone, and when they hear about Silicon Valley, hijinks ensue. There's a DeLorean and zzzzzzzzz. Wow it sucked but wasn't UNentertaining. There were many burst out loud moments. A film buff at work pointed out that the difference between the filmmaker and us is that he has completed a film and we have not. True dat. The director was sitting in front of us and cracking wise much of the time. Apparently in order to find buxom ladies to act in his film he went to a Learning Annex class about breaking into the porn industry, taught by Nina Hartley. He paid his thirty bucks, walked in and the room was all men! His neighbor and his gardener had featured roles, as astronauts.

I did not stay for the post-screening Q&A.

Sunday I did my writing group for an hour, went for a walk with tiny but mighty (pictured with some lemons and dog doo, and then had sumo with clam. She gave boy kitten a good brushing.

At the end of the weekend I really felt like I'd done something!

Nurse Navigator

I love our oncology nurse navigator. I want her to be my mom. So does mrguy. She lives in the midwest and is so soothing and knowledgeable. We only speak once a month, now, but there was a time when I spoke with her every day. Mrguy didn't even have the energy to speak with her for the first few months -- I remember it being a big deal when I brought the phone to the bed and she heard his voice for the first time.

Yesterday she said she might close our case. Mrguy might be graduating, because he's doing so well.

Not sure what to make of this. It's true that we know how to do cancer now, and that his numbers finally went down a bit again, and that they haven't found any observable cancer in the last year, but I want my nurse navigator. She says she'll always be there for us if we need her.

*sigh*

Next week is a CT scan. Hoping for good news. 

July 2025

4th of July weekend has been splendid. On Friday we hung out and I did genealogy in the afternoon. Then we watched the Toronto Blujays prevail over the Angels. Then the city next door did it's annual July 3rd fireworks show and we watched it from the sofa. It was clear on the holiday weekend!

Yesterday I went to the dog park with a friend. We saw this adorable creature (gopher?) digging up the tan bark outside the dog wash place. 

Then we ate a little breakfast and caught up on life. Then we did a little walking and met some nice dogs. I warned her in advance that I'm super afraid of dogs. Hers are tiny, with one spry dog and one old dog who needed to be carried part of the way. This little girl had too much fun.

We also saw pelicans in the distance above us. Ahhh.

I got to hang out a little bit at home, and then went to see a screening of a 4k remastered version of This Is Spinal Tap. It did not disappoint.

Finally, I went out with ms clam to drink an adult beverage and sew. It was delightful.

This morning mrguy and I took our time but then officially started our garage triage. I bought some stickers (colored dogs) to help us see at a glance what decisions had been made for our various items. Then I made a drop off at Goodwill and did some laundry. 

I'm kinda sleepy.

In Memoriam

We wound up this week's world heritage tour with a memorial. The setting was an Italian social club, and the memorialized was a person who was one of my favorite customers at the restaurant where I used to work. His lovely bride is an old old friend of mrguy. Such a great couple, with a son who attends Berklee. Attendees included people from all corners of my life, as I mentioned earlier.

I'm not sure how well I navigated the answers to why I was there and not mrguy. It's chemo week and his goal for yesterday was to sit upright, watch baseball and read a book. He's doing really well, otherwise. But if you're hearing me say that and I'm all cool with it and it's catching people off guard? I didn't know that so many people didn't know, so it came as an unwelcome surprise to some. I've had time to process and am happy to have every day. Really. But when the widow spoke about how she was supposed to grow old with her person and wasn't going to get to do that, I really lost it. Luckily I was in the back row, and mostly out of sight from people I work with as I bent into my kleenex and wept. 

There was a raffle in between speakers at the memorial, and I came home with a bottle of wine.

I mingled, I cried, I had to go. Met up with my new friend from the club for a beer. She is off for a few months in Norway, so this was a last visit of the season, so to speak. She had missed Scottish Night. I of course performed a full recitation of the events of the night. And then she told me about how she'd solved an irrigation issue at the local community garden. Suuuuuper interesting solution, directing rainwater into reservoirs in raised beds. The plants find what they need, reaching down into the reservoirs, and there is no evaporation because the water is underground. I wonder if we could do something similar for the island in the middle of our street. Just a thought.

A Week in June

I got back into doing the things this past week:

On Friday I saw a movie with a friend:

On Saturday my old workmates from the restaurant where we used to work 30 years ago got together for breakfast at the restaurant. The owner joined us and actually treated us, which was super sweet. We told stories and had such a great warm time. The food was delish. The restaurant is closing in a month or so and our old boss is retiring to garden and surf.

On Sunday I was able to clear out my home office, which gave me some peace of mind.

Monday was my first real day back at work after being mostly out of the office for a month or more. We got right back into it, doing 5 hours of oral history with the founder of the company. After work, a weaving class.

On Tuesday mrguy had chemo and then got a fever in the evening. We had the most pleasant ER experience you can have. There were very few people in the waiting room, we were seen within 15 minutes and got a room quickly. We are old hands at this so we each had our noise-canceling headphones. This was good, because there was a patient on a gurney in the hallway all night who talked loudly and nonstop, while being watched over by a security guard. Mrguy heard him say that he'd seen "Jim Brown and Adolf Hitler at the Warfield". The doctors found nothing wrong, but they gave him a chest xray to be sure, and also some infusions.

When you have a weaving class on Monday, everything looks like inspiration on Wednesday:

On Thursday I learned that my most persistent bucket list item will come to pass. Amazing. And at the club, we had Scottish night. I've learned that this is always the final event of the "season". Who knew? I had a great conversation with a guy from one of the visiting groups about his Titanic archive, digitizing historical collections and a little about the forklift collection. And from two other fellows I learned about their tartans. One tartan had a special color that was matched to some of his clan tartan that was dug up, somehow. It was such a beautiful red. Delish.

My brush with unfortunate masculinity came when I struck up a conversation with a young man whose hat I admired. Then I saw his sporrin, which was made from a badger. It was so beautiful. I love badgers. He said that I'd know his father if I saw someone who had an arctic fox sporrin. Once found, the father sat with me. He was a Fred Willard type, wearing both his Scottish regalia and a large quantity of oversized turquoise jewelry. It made for an interesting combo. I felt confused by our interaction because he kept gesticulating close to my boobs while we were talking -- not to grab them, but more flailing. I felt trapped, as the nice guys I met had left and Fred Willard and I were the only two left at the table. We were seated, so I ended up taking a defensive posture with my shoulder raised towards him. I just didn't want to make a scene while we were hosting this group. I also felt like this guy had been busting people's personal space for 40 years and he already knew. Eventually I just grabbed my stuff and said "I'm going upstairs, now!"

There was some beautiful bagpipery, and ceremonial haggis blessing, and the recitation of Robert Burns poetry. I have never heard so many "skoll" toasts! The Scots started on a higher pitch due to their relative youth and preponderance of tenors. Ours are a bit lower in timber. My goal is to start a "skoll" at the club some day. It's like starting The Wave. You know that SNL sketch from forever ago where someone claims that he started a particular wave? I wanna be that guy!

We had salad and haggis and soup and as the evening went on there were lots of songs of what I call the Shaggy Dog Song genre. Then the Ole and Lena jokes were offered by the Norsemen among us. It became 9:30 and the main course had not been served, and I had to work the next day. I was sitting in my preferred spot at the table, with the door to the hallway behind me. It makes me feel less claustrophobic. So I just put on my jacket, quietly picked up my purse, said farewell to Knut and slipped out the back hallway that leads from the kitchen to the entry. Escape! I'd had a great adventure, and enough for the night. I was a bit peckish when I got home.

On Friday I did 4 more hours of oral history with our company's founder. Then some research on a completely different topic, and then I found myself staring into space so I went home. I felt like I had completed things going into the weekend, and that is a fantastic sensation.

Today's excitement is a memorial for a friend. Back in the day he was one of my favorite customers from the restaurant. One of the few who treated me like he knew I was a person outside of the restaurant. His partner is a longtime friend of mrguy. The crossover is huge. He worked at a local radio station in his spare time, so there are people from there (including ms scandiwaiian), people from work, friends of mrguy...I'm a bit nervous about going to something like this without my man, but I gotta represent. Also people will be curious about mrguy if they know his situation. He's feeling gross after chemo.

After that I'm meeting a known Norwegian for a glass of wine. Whew!

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.