When I first got baby Violet, my brother and sister-in-law drove an hour to my place to meet her. This was when I lived in that mill house in Hillsborough. Bruce is allergic to all things furry, so we decided to take the puppy for a walk — outside, he would be able to breathe at least a little bit. I put Violet’s tiny collar around her tiny neck and clipped her tiny leash to it (she weighed about 25 pounds).
On our stroll, she was, as puppies are, all over the place — zigging and zagging, chewing at the leash and getting under foot, too excited because of the smells! sights! air! life! to pee or poop. We were all delighting in the 100% present-in-the-moment-ness that is the life of a puppy. But as we headed back to the house, the tiny clip on her tiny collar popped open and she was free — FREE! — and she started to bolt.
I. freaked. out.
I’d had this dog for, what?, a day or two?, and already she was going to get lost in the woods across the road and starve or, worse, hit by a car? People drove so fast on my road! Panicking, I yelled, “Violet!” and ran after her. She thought that was pretty great and picked up her pace.
Behind me — histamine response be damned — my brother squatted, opened his arms wide, and said, “Come here, you!” in a decidedly silly-sweet tone. Violet’s head jerked around. She went bounding toward him, and he scratched her head, and she flopped on her back. And I walked to them and clipped her tiny collar back on.
I don’t know why my brain recalled this incident yesterday or then why it occurred to me that this, sweetness/silliness/arms wide open/”Come here, you!”, would be a much better approach to dating than the cynicism/fear/arms forming an X in front of my face/”Not this shit again” that is my current one. But it did.
So with that, despite the fact that I overdid it on Gluten Sunday yesterday thus I’m battling fatigue, and that I’m PMSing (bonus: pyimples!), I’m off to meet Mr. OBD.
I haven’t exactly tasted it yet, because it’s quarter past eleven and it just got done cooking (not so great on the timing of things yet), but it looks like the picture! And I only had to call my sister with two Cooking for Dumbs questions: (1) How important is a half-teaspoon of fish sauce in a recipe that uses 2.5 lbs of beef? [She said not terribly but that I should’ve just come over because she has some. Of course she does.] (2) It’s not a good idea to leave the oven on while I go to the gym, right? [Right.]
Second, I was this close to calling the cops to report the screaming domestic dispute next door when I looked outside and Durham’s Finest were already there. Nice work, guys!
Third, HOW GREAT IS THE BLOG’S NEW LOOK? Big thanks to Angie at Lime Tiger, who is not only talented but funny and fun to work with, and Phil, to whom I emailed the documentation for the theme and said, “Wah. You do it.” And he did. What a gem, that guy.
I’m taking this writing workshop, which is totally dope, but requiring me to read a lot and write a lot, and the blog is being elbowed out, I’m afraid. For the next five Thursdays, at least. I’m having trouble getting to everything, including, you know, my job and grocery shopping. So here’s a piece of homework I did for the class, not the usual stuff I write here, but whatever. We had to “create a sense of place”, that is, think back on a place we used to live and develop it for the reader, using the good ol’ five senses. And it’s a story, of sorts, not one specific visit to my old homestead in Boone but an amalgam.
Anyway.
It’s dark. It’s always dark with the Roman shades down. Mom made them when I was, what?, seven? Designed to be reversible, but by the time I thought about reversing them, the other side was sun-bleached and splotchy. So I just kept the maroon side in. Between them and the dark bead board walls and ceiling, and the navy blue carpet, it can stay dark in here all day in the middle of July.
But it’s not July. It’s December. And I’m the first of the clan back at the old homestead for Christmas. It’s just me (the baby) and Dad.
The fringe of the canopy flutters. The furnace has kicked on again and it’s blowing up through the register at the foot of the bed. In an old house with old insulation, my room and the little bathroom are the only two rooms you can count on being warm. I curl the covers up and burrow down for another minute.
I listen for it, and there it is: the gurgle of Cove Creek. It rained yesterday, a lot. Not so much as after Bruce’s wedding when it spilled over Henson’s Branch Road, and we watched that drowned calf rush by. It didn’t occur to me to think about the farmer’s loss (I was picturing the grieving mother cow) until someone mentioned the word ‘livestock’.
Yesterday’s deluge was enough to double the creek’s usual depth to maybe two feet, probably cutting to half its size the tiny spit of land that juts out into it from the other bank—Dad always called it Nelson’s Peninsula, after Gary Nelson, the archetypal asshole neighbor across the way, a man so scary my brother and I would pick up our Big Wheels and tiptoe them past his stone lair.
The door to my bedroom is ajar—never has closed completely, only to about five inches from flush with the jam, where it screeches—wood on wood—to a halt. I hear Dad shuffling around in the kitchen, doing his damnedest to break another coffee pot I’m sure. That man has a talent.
The bed creaks as I roll off it. It’s a long way to the floor, probably three feet. When I was little, I’d take a running leap and fling myself onto the mattress, pulling my legs up on the double to make sure the monsters under my bed didn’t grab my feet mid-vault.
I pull up the covers in a half-assed attempt at making my bed. I never liked making my bed, though I enjoyed having made it. Sliding into tight sheets; calling out, “Daddyyyyyyyyyy, come tuck me iiiiiiiiiiiinnnnn.” ‘In’ was two sung notes, higher then lower. Dad would come count my covers (sheet, wool blanket, wool blanket, bedspread), kiss me on the forehead, and turn off my light. Until one August after spending the summer at Grandma’s, maybe I was ten, I don’t know. I hurled myself onto the bed, scooted under the covers, and opened my mouth to sing out. And it occurred to me, maybe not. That was the end of Dad tucking me in.
Now I walk into the kitchen, scrubbing at my eyes with the heels of my hands to adjust to that room’s brightness, and yes, of course, Dad’s there in his bathrobe, drinking coffee—he hasn’t yet misplaced today’s mug. He looks pensive as always, shuffling papers on the kitchen table, scribbling with a mostly dry magic marker, surely bought 25 years ago. (How many years will it take him to deplete the remaining art supplies of my childhood?)
The linoleum feels rubbery on my feet, but already a coating of breadcrumbs and dust is attaching itself to the soles. Dad says he sweeps. He says that. He also says he wipes down the counters. “With what? A pork chop?” my brother once asked.
This most recent coffee maker (Dad hasn’t killed it yet! Yay!) huffs like an awakening dragon. The pot is almost brewed, thank goodness. Dad looks up from his “work” (probably a mixture of manuscript notes, loose calendar pages, and articles cut out of the Mountain Times) and sees me. “Hiya, pet,” he says. “Fresh pot of coffee there. Can I make you some oatmeal?” There’s a hopeful note in his voice.
Yes, Dad. I’m 37, but yes. You can make me some oatmeal.
(He pisses—no joke—eleven times in my yard. And that’s only the ones I see. I wonder if it drives Redford crazy when he goes out there and finds this fucking Napoleon has planted his tiny flag all over Redford’s territory.)
As I’m walking out for work, dude drives up in a pick-up asking if I’ve seen his little white dog, and I let him know Mini-Poodle just left. We chat for a minute. His name’s Jorge. I tell him how well my dogs get along with his. He says, “I know, I couldn’t believe it the first time I saw it happen, I was like, ‘Oh my gahd, those are big dogs!'” He apologizes for Mini-Poodle’s trespasses. I tell him not to worry about it. Oh, how my attitude has changed about that little muppet.
Day 2
Gark! So many corrections when we walk! In a 25-minute loop, I correct Violet a dozen times, Redford only twice, and Tulip an average of every sixth step. Not joking. So frustrating. She’s learned other things. Why can’t she learn this?
Probably because I stopped walking in circles. I’m too tired. I’m tired, and I’m in that feel-bad-don’t-sleep-feel-bad cycle, and I’ve never been less inspired to start a new school year, and I don’t want to walk in fucking circles.
I go to the gym. None of my friends are there. Everything ass to knee is still burny, or as we say, Meredith Baxter Burny, from too many back squats on Saturday. And for the first time ever, I turn around and walk out.
Day 3
I’m at work for a long time, so when I get home, we do the 2.5-mile loop which we haven’t done in weeks. Twice the walk, twice the corrections. Tulip’s real bad at this.
Day 4
I keep taking Tulip into the yard on-leash to try to get the dogs to interact, but Redford and Violet are always so hot after our walks that they just stand on the deck waiting to go into the air conditioning.
Day 5
I decide to try the reintroduction before our walk. Redford runs laps around the shed. Tulip really wants to join him. At one point, Tulip approaches Violet, and I realize I’m too terrified. This is never going to happen.
Tulip and I walk circles in the driveway. She actually does pretty well and sits when I tell her to.
Day 6
To raise awareness of Breed-specific Legislation and the harm that it can do, CCB posts on Facebook pictures of all the adopt-a-bulls with the caption “I am Lennox. End BSL.”
A couple people comment on the photo of Tulip that they want to adopt her. I don’t get my hopes up because people say stuff like that all the time. Except that I do get my hopes up. Kind of a lot.
Day 7
We go to Auntie Wa’s house for dinner, and Tulip does this for about 45 minutes:
When we get in the car, she does this all the way home:
We need to go to Auntie Wa’s more often.
Neither of the people who commented on her photo follow up about adoption.
Two weeks ago, I started a project: get a new car.
The Outback, as I’ve mentioned, was never my favorite, plus it needed a new catalytic converter. I did not want to put a thousand dollars into a car I didn’t like. I’d already dumped so much cash into that beast, goddammit.
And when I say a new car, I mean a new car. My very first new car. Yes. Nobody else’s miles. No major repairs for a few years. Low financing. (I’ve been paying 5.75% to my bank on the Outback for three years, and boy, has that chapped my ass.) So I read through the Consumer Reports magazine my dad bought me and test-drove a whole mess o’ cars:
Mazda3 (My mom had driven a Mazda2 recently and said it didn’t accelerate.)
Toyota Yaris
Toyota Matrix
Scion xD
Honda Fit
Honda Accord (I wasn’t planning on buying an Accord—too big—but the guy had a 5-speed on the lot that he was trying to get rid of, so I took it out for a spin.)
I had planned to drive a couple Kias and Hyundais too, but CR gave them an open black circle for reliability, and after all the intimacy with my mechanic lately, it was an orange circle or nothing for me.
Mazda3 was my fave out of all of them. Good gas mileage, SIX (6!) speeds, and cute as the dickens. I might’ve dug the Honda Fit too if they’d had a manual transmission, but apparently those are pretty hard to snag. Folks in Japan have been replacing a lot of the vehicles swept away in the tsunami with 5-speed Fits, so I couldn’t get too mad at being put on a waitlist.
But I couldn’t really wait. My inspection was coming due, and I needed to get ‘er done before spring break was over. I went back to a couple of dealerships and got some numbers. And of course they wanted to give me chump change for the trade—Mazda twice as much as Honda, but as my boss in New York used to say, double bupkis is still bupkis.
So I put up a warts-and-all ad for the Outback on Craig’s List. I noted that I had dogs with whom I had traveled in the vehicle, that one of them had chewed the inside of the hatch door, that the catalytic converter needed replacing. I priced it accordingly, listing the Kelley Blue Book value and subtracting for cosmetic damage and projected repairs. I got five or six bites, one lowball offer, and one solid, but when I took it to the solid offer’s mechanic, his machine spat out “all kinds of electrical codes” in addition to the cat con one, and the guy rescinded. Another dude lived two hours away and wanted me to meet him halfway so he could look at the car. No thanks. I decided to trade it.
Meanwhile, I talked to my friend, Z—actually, you know him already. Remember the ridiculous specimen of male beauty?; yeah, he’s my buddy now. He had recently traded his car. When I asked if they gave him a good deal, Z said, “I made them give me a good deal.” As I’ve stated, he cuts kind of an imposing figure, what with the tattoos and the muscles. I wondered aloud if he might go with me to a dealership or two. He consented gladly.
Just knowing that gave me a boost of confidence. I wasn’t going to take any bullshit. I went back to the Durham Mazda dealer by myself, and the guy upped his offer by 25%. Now we were getting somewhere, but I wasn’t sure about the color. He had only silver on the lot, and meh. I looked online and thought I liked a hue they called dolphin gray. Durham Guy said he had one coming in “any day”.
I scoped out other Mazda dealers in the area and saw that the place in Cary had a six-speed manual transmission 3 in dolphin gray, so I set up an appointment to go check it out and hauled Z along with me.
Upon in-person observation, the dolphin gray lay well on the School Marm end of the spectrum, but the graphite gray which they also had, well, that shore was purdy. The salesman was an odd combination of pushy and pansy. He tried to offer me 800 less than what Durham Guy was willing to pay, and that was after I told him what the number was! I said, “Uh, no.” Z mostly sat in silence with just one hazy emasculation of the salesman when he intimated that the guy drove a girl-colored car. Perfect.
When Pushy-Pansy scurried back to his manager, Z straightened me out on a couple things: (1) it’s worth something to have your dealer near your house, so unless Pushy-Pansy could beat, not just match, Durham Guy in the price department, you shouldn’t do it, and (2) if you’re financing at 0.9%, it doesn’t make sense to put any money down. Oh, yeah. (“Math is hard,” Barbie said.)
Pushy-Pansy was gone for a long time. I told Z my theory: they make you sit there forever, so when they finally come back, you go, “Well, I’ve already invested so much time, I might as well buy it.” I was thinking of walking out, and Z said good plan. Meanwhile, Durham Guy called to let me know he’d gotten a black one delivered, and I set the scene for him: I was at the Cary dealership, and I was really liking the graphite—ooooh.
Pushy-Pansy came back and gave the final verdict: 300 more than Durham Guy. I told him I’d think about it, and we left. Z instructed me to call Durham Guy and gave me some pointers on what to say.
So I did. I called and said, “Look, I like the graphite best, which Pushy-Pansy has, but it’s also worth something to me to have my dealership close to my house, so if you come up with another 300 bucks on the trade, I’ll come take one off your hands today.” (I actually used those words: I’ll come take one off your hands today. Ha!)
He replied without hesitation, “I can do that.”
I pulled into the lot a half-hour later, compared the silver and the black, filled out a bunch of paperwork, and voilà!
(I've never been one of those girls who named her car, but my friend suggested Bellatrix, and I don't know, it just seems right.)
So my car payment is more than my mortgage payment. Which is not that much. (When the finance officer asked what my mortgage was and I told him, he looked startled, and then when he saw I was serious, he laughed. He laughed out loud.)
But still, it’s a lot of money for me.
And I’m totally paranoid that something’s going to happen to WHAT IS THAT LEAF DOING ON MY CAR? WHY IS EVERYBODY DRIVING LIKE A FUCKING MANIAC?
But it’s new. And I love it. And it’s mine mine mine.
Even before I start it, Tulip tries to herd the lawn mower, trembling madly and nipping at the wheels. No verbal corrections work. When I get the machine outside the fence and start to adjust the wheels, she yelps and yips and arfs and awwwws. In fact, I can’t believe it’s just her. It sounds like several dogs at once; I keep thinking my dogs have joined in the cacophony. It appears my foster dog is having an anxiety attack.
In the spare bedroom she goes. I open the windows, turn on the ceiling fan, and head out into the yard to mow. I hear her freaking out from inside, and on one swipe across the yard, I look up to find that Tulip is hanging halfway out the window.
I’m somewhere between that fire hydrant and that pit bull-sized hole in the screen when I see her.
I sprint to the sill and shove her back into the spare bedroom. Back in the house, I shut the windows.
When I leave a little later to wash my car, I close the blinds too. When I come home, I see that
she has, in her fashion, dealt with the blind.
Why can’t I learn my lesson about crating?
In the crate she goes when I head to the gym. By the time I get home, it’s after dark. My headlights sweep over the fence.
Guess who’s back.
Mini-poodle.
Day 2
I read online that one way to help introduce dominant dogs is walking them side-by-side. I enlist some friends to help me. Auntie Erika is the first to come over. Tulip is in the yard, Violet and Redford on the deck. I bring my dogs inside to get leashed up. Next thing I know, Tulip is staring in through the screen door. What is it with my foster dogs and parkour?
We walk up and down my street, Erika with Tulip, me with Redford and Violet. And there is excellent behavior. Mostly, we walk a couple feet apart, but a few times, one of the dogs interacts with Tulip briefly, and it is fine. Going to try this again several times over the next week. Fingers crossed.
Day 3
I babysit my oldest nephew (7) and littlest niece (2). Littlest Niece calls my foster dog Puwit.
Day 4
Tulip is in the yard, Violet and Redford on the deck. I step inside for a second and hear a thud. I peer through the kitchen window. Tulip has vaulted herself over the gate, and all three dogs are standing on the deck, alert, sniffing each other. Calm-assertive-eneryee-calm-assertive-eneryee-CALM-ASSERTIVE-ENERYEE, I say to myself… panicking.
I flap Redford into the yard. Violet is being naughty, circling the porch furniture in an effort to stay out of my grasp. Finally, I drag Tulip into the house and hyperventilate a little bit. OK, I think, that wasn’t so bad. Maybe it’s time to introduce them. I put Violet away and take Tulip and Redford into the yard. Same as last time: glee from Tulip; romping; nerves; in the end, bared teeth from Redford. Sigh.
Tulip goes to the vet to make sure she’s healthy enough to go through with the heartworm treatment and gets the thumbs-up. The treatment is scheduled for next week.
The transport and I plan to meet in Burlington, about a 40 minute drive for each of us. She pulls Tulip from the shelter, which takes much longer than it should have, and then gets stuck in traffic. I wait in the Barnes & Noble parking lot for an hour and a half.
When Tulip jumps out of the truck, she’s nervous. She pulls and pulls against the nylon lead, nearly asphyxiating herself. She is, you might say, a hoss: low and beefy and strong as shit. I take her to go potty on the grass and try to lure her into the car with some leftover turkey from my lunch bag. She enjoys the lunch meat but won’t load up, so the transport heaves her into the Outback.
She circles, circles, circles in the front seat and tries to jump out the passenger window. I’m attempting to do three things, hold her lead, steer, and shift gears, with two hands. It takes some doing. Eventually, she climbs into the back seat and curls up in an adorable little ball until we get home.
She enters the house nearly flat. Boonie did that once, flattened himself to the ground, when I made him ride on a ferryboat, and Violet’s been taking that stance on bridges lately. Tulip is terrified.
Carolina Care Bullies advocates something called The Two-Week Shutdown. Basically, you don’t train the dog, walk the dog, give the dog any freedom, or introduce the dog to other household pets for two weeks. It allows the dog to become comfortable, learn rules, and understand pecking order.
When I introduce Tulip to Redford, she is delighted, wants to play immediately, but the little bastard bares his teeth and arfs at her. I am perplexed.
Maybe the Violet thing will go better. Again, Tulip is ecstatic; Violet is absolutely not. They have words. It is scary.
When Redford and Violet set boundaries with Buffy, she dropped to a crouch and waited for the moment to pass. Tulip does not believe in that sort of your-house-your-rules diplomacy.
I shut her in the spare bedroom with me. She wags and curls up next to me on the couch, covering my arms and chin with kisses. She’s really cute.
Day 2
I go to work, and worry. What if she escapes like Buffy did? She doesn’t.
I want everybody to get some wiggles out before I try any meetings again so I walk Tulip for a half-hour, lock her in the crate, and take the others for a loop too.
I let Redford and Tulip out into the yard together. She wants to play; he keeps avoiding her. She doesn’t let up. They have words. It is scary.
I resign myself to the shutdown. I don’t exactly live in Windsor Palace; it requires a mad shuffling of dogs in order for them not to interact. It’s going to be a long two weeks.
She just wants to be with everybody.
Twice she gets a shoe from my room. Twice I rescue it.
As I sit at my desk and work at my computer, she begins to give my knee kisses. After a minute, I realize they’re becoming more amorous. She puts her paws on my knee and starts making sweet love to my leg. I tell her no ma’am.
Day 3
I’m stressing out about tomorrow’s storytelling gig. This is the real deal, a curated show, not a put-your-name-in-the-hat shindig. My story is not coming together. I need some time to think. Tulip keeps absconding with my flip-flops. I lock her in her crate, with Redford and Violet outside. She whines nonstop, and they keep banging on the door to come back in. I let Redford and Violet in, close them in my room, put Tulip outside, let Redford and Violet out of my room, sit in the green chair, and breathe. Violet noses my elbow up, like a seal with a beach ball, one of her cues that she will be requiring some affection now, thank you. I clamp my arms to the chair. She starts a wrestle-battle with Redford at my feet. I JUST NEED A MINUTE TO MYSELF.
I don’t know how people with children do it.
Nobody gets walked. I get nothing done on my story. Instead, in an attempt to create order out of chaos, I clean the house and mow the lawn. It does make me feel better.
Day 4
Tulip doesn’t want her breakfast, as usual. I pour chicken broth on it. Nope. I microwave it for ten seconds. Still no. I stir peanut butter into it. Two licks. I take her on the 2.5-mile neighborhood loop.
We run into the next-door neighbor kid, who is a total delinquent. Been in juvy a coupla/three times. He’s walking down the street with two other boys, smoking a cigarette.
“You got another dog?” he says.
“This is my foster dog.”
“You gon keep her?”
“Nope, trying to find her a good home.”
“How much you gon sell her for?”
“I’m not selling her.”
“You giving her away? Can I keep her?”
Absolutely no fucking way in hell would I ever let this dog into your home, with your crazy-ass mother who has semi-weekly screaming fits and you who smokes and skips school and does god knows what else.
I don’t say that out loud.
“Your little dog? She’s female, right?” I ask him, and he responds in the affirmative. “The organization won’t put two female dogs together.” (Lie.)
Tulip is better on the leash than she was last time. We get home, and she eats her food, a third at a time, checking in to make sure I still love her at each break.
Day 5
The never-ending dog shuffles are tiresome, and I feel like I’m neglecting Redford and Violet.
When my friends ask how Tulip is doing, I tell them she’s a grunty pig. She roots around me and the couch while we’re snuggling. She grunts and groans and moans when I pet her or when she’s just, you know, existing. She snorts when she eats.
Erin: So she shnurffles?
Me: She totally shnurffles! She’s a shnurffly monkey!
Erin: She’s a shnurffly hump-monkey!
That’s my Tulip.
Day 6
As I rub Tulip’s ears during one of our couch snuggle sessions, I notice that some of her fur falls out. I google ‘mange’, and peruse the images. I think my foster dog is a shnurffly, mangey hump-monkey.
As in the past, when any student of mine has gotten lice, my head begins to itch. I google ‘can humans get mange?’. The answer: Yes, but the parasites cannot reproduce on humans, so you’ll only itch for a couple of weeks until they die out. Only a couple of weeks?!
Goddammit.
Later, I take her to my sister’s house. Good news: Tulip shows no fear around the older kids (the little one’s napping). My sister tosses a tennis ball. Tulip sprints after it, picks it up, and runs back. She doesn’t drop it—I have to wrestle it from her jaws—but when I throw it again, she runs after it again. My sister’s yard is Magical Fetchland.
Tulip sniffs, and snorts, and cavorts around the whole yard. Watching my foster dog frolic, my sister says, “If everybody could see this, they’d have a different opinion about pit bulls.” Preach, Wa.
Day 7
I supervise the eating of breakfast, as usual. Tulip’s not interested, as usual. I once met a dog at the dog park whose owner was trying to train her but was struggling because the dog was “not food-motivated”. What is that I don’t even.
During one of our seventeen daily dog shuffles (Tulip outside, Redford and Violet inside), Violet takes two shoes from my room and starts to chew them. Somebody’s not getting enough attention. Guilt.
Tulip will go tomorrow to get spayed. I commence fretting.
A couple months ago, I got a bee in my bonnet about putting a fire pit in my yard. Whenever I get excited about a project, I have to say I’m going to do it five or six times before I actually do it. So I did that. I’d say, “I’m thinking about building a fire pit,” and my friends would say, “Yeah! Do it!” and a few weeks later, I’d say, “I’m thinking about building a fire pit.”
Ten days ago, I decided I would have some folks over for New Year’s Eve, but my house is really small, and it was going to be too cold for the deck. So I built a fire pit. Impending events are very motivating to me.
I got online and checked out some plans and videos. I thought maybe I’d make it flush with the ground—I just liked that aesthetic—but when I asked for advice, one of my friends said to build a little wall around it so people would have a place to put their feet. That’s what I planned.
I bought a ton of Appalachian river stone from the Rock Shop. (My knight-in-law delivered it to my house in his truck.)
On Thursday
I made a hole.
While I was digging, a guy driving by slowed down.
Him: You diggin a well?
Me: Fire pit.
Him: You doin it yourself?
Me: (flinging dirt into wheelbarrow) Yep.
Him: You all right.
The soil in my yard is hard-as-shit red clay. I didn’t want to end up installing an ersatz vase that would hold rain and become a mosquito hot spot, so for drainage
I dumped in graveland sandand then set in two layers of river stone and sand.
Another neighbor, Albert, who lives across the street with his 98-year-old mother and has about six teeth altogether in his head, came over.
Albert: You plantin a tree?
Me: Nope. Making a fire pit.
Albert: You gon have somebody do it for ya?
Me: …I’m doing it myself.
Albert: How you know to do it?
Me: I just got on the internet and looked at some plans.
Albert: Innernet. I don believe in the innernet.
Me: …
Albert: That innernet datin done me wrong.
I thought about saying, “Me too, Albert. ME TOO.” But I just wanted him to go away so I could get back to work, and I’ve already dealt with one neighbor of an inappropriate age and tooth-count asking me out and sending me Valentines(!), so I didn’t say anything and he wandered away.
The next day, I mixed 80 pounds of concrete in my wheelbarrow and started ringing the pit with stones. Albert came back.
Albert: I wanna be invited to your first barbeque.
Me: It’s not that kind of fire pit. It’s just going to be to sit around.
Albert: Oh. You jus gon sit around it?
Me: Mm-hm.
Albert: Jus to sit around.
Me: Yep.
Albert: Fire pit.
Me: Fire pit.
Albert: I have confidence in you.
Me: Thanks.
My knight-in-law came back with a couple of his trusty squires. One of them spent a lot of time trying to break the rocks by throwing them onto the other rocks and losing Lego pieces in my yard; the other was quite helpful with sorting the rocks by size and shape.
I kept laying in the rocks. When I got to the top of the hole, my aching back and low blood sugar won over and I was like, screw the wall, I’m done. The knight-in-law took off the top layer of grass and soil, and
we puzzled in a patio-lip-kind-of-thing and called it a day.
Third day, I mixed up another bag of concrete, cemented in the lip, and covered it with sand. Hello again, Albert.
Albert: You done a hellified job.
Me: Thanks.
Albert: How you gon cook the meat?
Me: …Not planning to cook on it. Just going to make a fire.
Albert: In your fire pit.
Me: In my fire pit.
And guess what! That night,
I made a fire in my fire pit!Here's one with the flash on.Here's one the day after. My fire pit was not being particularly photogenic that day. Believe me, it's beautiful.
Some of the stones around the top are loose because people stepped on them and I probably didn’t use enough concrete and WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? I’M NOT A MASON. And anthropologists in the future will almost certainly look at it and say, “Based on the engineering, we estimate this malaria bowl was made by Homo ergasters.”
But it’s mine. It’s my fire pit. I built it. I done a hellified job.
Also, “hellified”: favorite new word. Thanks, Albert.
In the past, I’ve set the bar low, or as my friend Dan says, “created winnable games”, but I’m going to challenge myself a little bit this year.
1. I will dress better. A few days ago, as I “dressed up” by taking off my navy blue hoodie with paint on it and put on my navy blue hoodie without paint on it, I realized, this has to stop. But it means I’ll have to…go…shopping…I can’t feel my legs…(breathes into paper bag). How am I going to accomplish this resolution when just thinking of trying on clothes sends me into paroxysms? Help, girlfriends. Maybe a standing monthly shopping date?
2. I will continue to floss 2-3 times a week in my car at red lights. I would resolve to floss daily, but after about 18 years of that resolution, it’s smelling a little gamey, and a few times a week is better than nothing. This is not setting the bar low; it’s just knowing thyself. Myself. Thmyself.
3. I will not engage in political or religious debate on Facebook. It makes me not like people who, in person, I really like, and I’m certain the feeling is mutual.
comic from xkcd.com
4. I will make my bed. Life just seems more orderly when my bed is made. To make this easier on thmyself, I turned my bed around, set it at an angle for minimum bed-making gymnastic maneuvering, and bought one of those bed-in-a-bag sets from Bed, Bath, & Beyond. It was $180, marked down to $99, and I had a 20% off coupon, so for 80 bucks, I got a TOTALLY CRAPPY OPPOSITE-OF-FLAME-RETARDANT bed set. Seriously, it might spontaneously combust. It had those anti-theft things on it in the store, so I couldn’t open it and feel how polyester it was. And then, by the time I got it home, I was committed. Anyway, I basically just have to pull up the comforter to make my bed, and that’ll be easy. The 59 decorative kindling pillows that came with it might have to go in a closet.
5. I will reduce my intake of refined sugar. Oh, Jesus. This one makes me jitterier than clothes shopping. Here’s my plan. I can have sugar (and by that, I mean dessert items—I’m not talking about the quarter-teaspoon of sugar I have in my coffee; that stays) after 7:00pm on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. That might seem like a lot to you, but it’s about four days a week fewer than my current intake. We’ll see how this goes. I have no faith in myself on this one.
6. I will talk to myself like I talk to my dogs. Less: “You’re a silly monkey” and “Are you one of the two best dogs in the world?” More: “You’re cute, sweet, friendly, capable, smart, personable, honest, and caring, with leadership qualities.”
7. I will get into a romantic relationship. Jitteriest! How will I do this? I will go on dates. At least one first date a month (unless I find him before December, which will void this contract). That will be twelve possible matches. I’m going to work the Law of Averages.
Interesting things happen when it’s nighttime. To wit: my friends and I threw a prom of sorts on Saturday night. It was nominally a birthday party for me (36) and Anna (three-oh!) but, as I said in the invitation, mostly an excuse for us to get dressed up in fancy clothes and sway to the musical stylings of Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark. Of course, we also told people they could wear pajama pants if they wanted to.
In the planning phase, we tried to come up with a suitable venue. We weren’t sure how many people would show up. I didn’t trust my mansion to hold the crowd so we asked the owner of CrossFit Durham if we could have it there and, being the coolest ever, he said yes.
Do you remember going to your elementary school at night, like when your mom had a PTA meeting or something? Remember how weird it seemed? The light was different, no lines of second-graders waiting to put their germy cheeks against the water fountain spigot. You’d pick up a pencil, and it just wouldn’t seem like the same implement as it did between 8:00 and 2:30. That’s a little how it was being at CFD without the overheads on, without the grunting.
Four of us had spent an hour hanging up glittery stars and white Christmas lights on the pull-up bars. Anna had had the presence of mind to bring floor lamps, so we could turn off the fluorescents, thank god. Lindsay made an awesome polaroid frame (see pic below). And that was it! We were ready for prom.
Now only 20 people came—I don’t know if folks were scared off by the prom theme or what—but those of us who were there had a ridiculously fun time. The equipment we use for WODs? Suddenly it all became props in our prom farce.
That’s not how you hold a sledgehammer; I just wanted to make sure my corsage was visible.(Something jokey jokey joke. Pull-up bar while wearing a push-up bra. Nope. I don’t have it.)
That big open space we use to do burpees? Well, that was the dancefloor.
I lasted 57 minutes in the heels before I took them off. That’s 37 minutes longer than I promised.
Anyway, IT WAS SO FUN.
All because it was nighttime in the gym.
Of course, last night, I woke up because my foot was all sting-y. I got out of bed and went into the bathroom to look at the sore spot. The underside of my ring toe was cut, right where the toe meets the foot. I washed it, slathered it in Neosporin, stuck a band-aid on it, and crawled back in bed.
But just as the elementary school library looks like a labyrinth after 7:00pm, ideas take different shape in the nighttime. I started spinning tales in my head. See, my friend M had a blister about this time last year, and maybe it was the State Fair and maybe it was the gym, but somehow that tiny foot wound sent her to the hospital with a staph infection. In the nighttime, with me in my bed, it seemed not only plausible that that would happen to me but an absolute done deal.
But nighttime doesn’t stop there. In the few months after her hospital stay, M’s house got robbed, and she got breast cancer. (Talk about all-time worst years, right?) So there I am last night, in the fetal position, certain that I’m going to lose everything I own and need a double mastectomy. Stupid nighttime.
This morning, after my coffee, I soaked my foot in salty water and applied more antiseptic cream, and I sit here pretty sure that I won’t be coming home to a pillaged house after my chemo treatment in a few months.
But I’m still worried I’m headed for the ER in a day or two.
