Well, I did it. My Realtor, Jan, came by yesterday with a colleague of hers, and we signed the papers to put the house on the market. I have yet to get the screens replaced or the carpets cleaned or the front door repainted, but as those are the only things holding me back, I decided to get the ball rolling, which would be a motivator for getting the rest of the job done.
The realty people showed up about 2 o'clock, and Patty raced upstairs to hide, as usual. I showed them around the house, first the main floor, then upstairs. After, we went down to the garage to show them the laundry and built-in shelving. Then we went upstairs to the dining room table to lay out the paperwork. Lots of paperwork.
I haven't signed and initialed so much since I was laid off by Nielsen at the Hollywood Reporter. But I read through all of it, with Jan explaining each document and what it dealt with (which really helped). Lots of it was disclaimers and agreements that I would have had to read through three times before feeling comfortable enough to sign them if I was doing this on my own. Now I understand what Mom meant when she said Realtors "earn every penny." I would not want to go through this process on my own.
So next week a woman is coming out to measure the place, and the screen guy will be replacing the screens. Once the carpet guy is scheduled, Jan's photographer is going to shoot the place. After that, we schedule the open house and go from there. Sale times are running 60 to 90 days, but there's not much inventory right now, so the chance of getting a bidding war going is a possibility; about a third of the comps Jan showed me were selling above asking price.
So the ladies left around 4 o'clock and I was feeling like another underpinning of my reality had been knocked clear. Soon I'll be standing on one foot, balancing, waiting for someone to shout, "Jenga!" I realized that I hadn't gotten around to lunch, so I had lunner and sat down to continue my viewing of "Fringe" on Netflix.
The sun had been down for a few hours when I realized that I had not seen Patty since the Realtors were here. I had been out on the patio a couple times after, and Patty usually runs from wherever she is and joins me outside, but she hadn't. So I checked all the cabinets and cupboards, all the places she likes to hide. No Patty. I went down into the garage, called to her, looked in the crannies, but nothing. On a hunch, I wedged the door to the garage open and in about three minutes, you betcha, here comes Patty yowling and bouncing up the stairs.
I was reflecting on the fact that her previous disappearance into the garage occurred the day they finished the remodel on the house. Now she dashes down there when I sign the papers putting the house on the market. At least this time it only took me three hours instead of three days to locate her. But still, I can't help thinking she knows exactly what's going on, and this is her way of making comment of the progress towards impending changey differentness.
So I am opening myself to a new flow, a change. I don't know if it's opening like a budding flower or a festering pustule, but either one would be therapeutic at this point, and perhaps both would be appropriate. Because, now that I'm honed and decluttered, ready to slough off our home of eight years, only now do I start to realize the volume of crap I have yet to go through to finish the active portion of my mourning. If I'm lucky, I'll be wrapping it up just about the time I head out on my drive to La Crosse and my new world.
My ultimate goal: a white Christmas this year, in a new town and a new home.
Friday, January 16, 2015
Sunday, January 11, 2015
New Year's Recommendations
I've decided this year I'm not making New Year's resolutions, I'm making New Year's recommendations. This means I won't feel so let down or guilty when I ignore them in a few week's time. Some of them are so easy, I'm sure I'll have 'em down in no time.
The last entry was made Christmas Eve. I can say that nothing of note occurred in the week between then and New Year's Eve. On Jan. 31, Kittie and David drove down after work from Grover Beach and spent the night.
So on the Monday before, I went to the store, having planned out how much food I'd need to stock in for three people over four days. I had been most meticulous in my list making, and I even texted Kittie a couple times from the store, asking advice on juices, snacks, etc.
I got home and lugged the groceries up from the garage. After stowing everything, I was relaxing on the couch when the phone rang. It was Kittie. She had called to say that she couldn't get Friday off, nor could David. Luckily, most everything I bought was freezable, so much of the excess was moved down to the freezer for longterm storage.
On New Year's Eve, amazingly, they drove down in well under three hours, and when we went online to purchase an overnight parking permit (you can't park on Pasadena city streets between the hours of 2 a.m. and 6 a.m. without a permit), we found they were waiving the ordinance between Dec. 23 and Jan. 3, so that was one less thing to worry about.
So we sat by the TV and chatted, channel-surfing from one broadcast from Times Square to another. I was explaining that the folks on the street in New York were huddled into pens (for lack of a better word), not allowed to leave to eat, drink or go to the bathroom: they are stuck there for eight, ten, twelve hours waiting for the ball to drop.
Midnight came and we toasted the new year with some sparkling grape juice (I think it's nice when everyone toasts with the same beverage), and headed directly to bed.
I had had the idea that we could get some tickets for the grandstands, walk down to Colorado Boulevard and watch the Rose Parade in person. None of us would probably ever get the chance again, so why not? They liked the idea and each would try to get the Friday after New Year's Day off so we could make a weekend of it.
I got up the next morning at 6:45 (unheard of for me these days). Kittie made coffee, baked cinnamon rolls and scrambled up some eggs, and we headed out the door just before 8 a.m. in order to be on the freeway overpass when the B-2 Spirit stealth bomber did its flyover to start the parade.
The parade begins at the corner of Colorado and Orange Grove, at the Norton Simon Museum and heads east on Colorado. Our seats were about halfway down the route, and the parade wouldn't arrive until about 8:45. So we walked the mile to the bleachers and, surprise, surprise, our "end seats" were not on an aisle, but crammed up against the outside railing. So instead of having a little leg room and a better view, we were trapped for well over two hours against a diagonal cage and a wall of not-yet-spent revelers.
Also, we were on the north side of the street, so the low winter sun was blasting into our eyes for the first half of the parade. On the upside, the morning, which had started in the mid-30s, warmed up quickly as the sun rose, and we were comfortable in our seats, at least temperature-wise. Instead of having the broadcast commentators, a mousy-sounding girl behind me read out what each entry was, getting very confused and frustrated when entries were swapped or simply missing.
After the first hour, my agoraphobia started kicking in, my back started aching, and I turned into my father (meaning I began morphing into a grumpy old bastard).
By the time the parade broke up (the end wasn't really clear to us: Giant tow trucks blasting their horns, Jesus freaks carrying placards with bible verses and slogans; flamboyant homeless riding outrageous bicycles), I was more than ready to get out of there.
As we walked back, I apologized for being such a whiner. And, after two hours on a metal bleacher seat, I knew about halfway back I wasn't going to make it home, so David consented to getting the car. By the time he showed up, I had rested the back and could have walked the rest of the way.
When we got home, I turned on the DVR and we watched the parade all over again.
Most of the folks I know here in Pasadena told me not to waste my time with seeing the parade in person; that it was much better to watch it on TV. After this experience, I heartily agree with them, for several reasons:
In the final analysis, I'm glad we went down and watched the parade in person because we saw one thing they don't show on TV: The sweepers who come behind the equestrian entries, and the roar and cheer that breaks out (almost as enthusiastic as those for the veterans) whenever a sweeper steps up and do his or her duty. I suppose the spectators can identify with the true value of the cleaners' contribution.
Like the Oscars, the Rose Parade is one of those things that locals point to to prove that, even if they're not better than everyone else, they do lead superior and secretly blessed lives. It's all illusion, of course, and it's expensive to maintain. Most of the world could care less about this vortex of corporate creative self-interest we call L.A., but the residents spend their time telling one another how fabulous each is.
Naturally, no one in this town cares to hear that they are not the center of the universal cosmic consciousness, nor that a shit shoveler might have more immediate value than all of them put together.
The longer I'm here, the more I feel, clear and simple, that I have to get out of all this. And, gosh darn, if that isn't one of my top new year's recommendations.
The last entry was made Christmas Eve. I can say that nothing of note occurred in the week between then and New Year's Eve. On Jan. 31, Kittie and David drove down after work from Grover Beach and spent the night.
So on the Monday before, I went to the store, having planned out how much food I'd need to stock in for three people over four days. I had been most meticulous in my list making, and I even texted Kittie a couple times from the store, asking advice on juices, snacks, etc.
I got home and lugged the groceries up from the garage. After stowing everything, I was relaxing on the couch when the phone rang. It was Kittie. She had called to say that she couldn't get Friday off, nor could David. Luckily, most everything I bought was freezable, so much of the excess was moved down to the freezer for longterm storage.
 |
| The B-2 flyover starts the Rose Parade each year. |
So we sat by the TV and chatted, channel-surfing from one broadcast from Times Square to another. I was explaining that the folks on the street in New York were huddled into pens (for lack of a better word), not allowed to leave to eat, drink or go to the bathroom: they are stuck there for eight, ten, twelve hours waiting for the ball to drop.
 |
| Showing my photographic prowess. |
 |
| An Oregon fan's head was most of my view. |
 |
| Do you see kids hanging from a railing or the Love Boat float? |
 |
| Don't know what it is but, dang, what a lot of flowers! |
The parade begins at the corner of Colorado and Orange Grove, at the Norton Simon Museum and heads east on Colorado. Our seats were about halfway down the route, and the parade wouldn't arrive until about 8:45. So we walked the mile to the bleachers and, surprise, surprise, our "end seats" were not on an aisle, but crammed up against the outside railing. So instead of having a little leg room and a better view, we were trapped for well over two hours against a diagonal cage and a wall of not-yet-spent revelers.
Also, we were on the north side of the street, so the low winter sun was blasting into our eyes for the first half of the parade. On the upside, the morning, which had started in the mid-30s, warmed up quickly as the sun rose, and we were comfortable in our seats, at least temperature-wise. Instead of having the broadcast commentators, a mousy-sounding girl behind me read out what each entry was, getting very confused and frustrated when entries were swapped or simply missing.
After the first hour, my agoraphobia started kicking in, my back started aching, and I turned into my father (meaning I began morphing into a grumpy old bastard).
By the time the parade broke up (the end wasn't really clear to us: Giant tow trucks blasting their horns, Jesus freaks carrying placards with bible verses and slogans; flamboyant homeless riding outrageous bicycles), I was more than ready to get out of there.
As we walked back, I apologized for being such a whiner. And, after two hours on a metal bleacher seat, I knew about halfway back I wasn't going to make it home, so David consented to getting the car. By the time he showed up, I had rested the back and could have walked the rest of the way.
When we got home, I turned on the DVR and we watched the parade all over again.
 |
| Fairly good shot No. 1. |
1. NO CROWDS
Steve and I went down to Colorado on New Year's Eve a couple years ago, and I remember perceiving these partiers, young and old, families, lovers, all seemed to be the homeless of Disneyland: camping out on the street, sometimes rubbing each other the wrong way, but everyone dedicated to getting the best seat without paying for it. By the time the sun rises on New Year's Day, these folks have a feeling of entitlement, nerves that started being frayed the night before are being rekindled in the morning light. A good percentage of those on the street just want to get this over with so they can leave. |
| Fairly good shot No. 2. |
2. WHAT'S ON THE OTHER SIDE?
On television, they have at least a half dozen cameras covering each parade entry as it comes down the street. When you're in person, you've got one angle only, and don't even think about trying to jockey for position to get a good shot of the floats.3. ENVIRONS
On television, there is the backdrop of the Norton Simon Museum and its lush grounds in which to frame shots of the parade. When you're farther down the parade route, you're taking shots of the stores and pocket malls across the street, as well as the extensive forest of poles and overhead wires that make it nearly impossible to frame a good shot without having the ugliness of the real world (which we tend to filter out day to day) compete with the beauty of the floats. |
| Fairly good shot No. 3. |
4. DISTANCE
On TV, the marching bands and horse brigades are just coming out of the gate, feeling honored to be a part of this very famous thing; you can see it in their eyes. But the farther down the parade route they go, the more drained they become, and after about 45 minutes of high-stepping and overflowing enthusiasm, the ebullience is perceptibly worn down, and a good percentage of parade participants just want to get to the end so they can go party or get ready for the Rose Bowl game.5. CONVENIENCE
Even living so close to the parade route, you still have to "get ready," get down to Colorado, and be there on time. With TV, you can make the coffee and putter around in the kitchen in your pajamas or robe. Or, better yet, you can record the whole thing and watch it at your convenience.In the final analysis, I'm glad we went down and watched the parade in person because we saw one thing they don't show on TV: The sweepers who come behind the equestrian entries, and the roar and cheer that breaks out (almost as enthusiastic as those for the veterans) whenever a sweeper steps up and do his or her duty. I suppose the spectators can identify with the true value of the cleaners' contribution.
Like the Oscars, the Rose Parade is one of those things that locals point to to prove that, even if they're not better than everyone else, they do lead superior and secretly blessed lives. It's all illusion, of course, and it's expensive to maintain. Most of the world could care less about this vortex of corporate creative self-interest we call L.A., but the residents spend their time telling one another how fabulous each is.
Naturally, no one in this town cares to hear that they are not the center of the universal cosmic consciousness, nor that a shit shoveler might have more immediate value than all of them put together.
The longer I'm here, the more I feel, clear and simple, that I have to get out of all this. And, gosh darn, if that isn't one of my top new year's recommendations.
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
Instant Holiday Traditions
Here's the last of my Holiday viddies for the season:
I went shopping today.
I didn't have to go to the store today. I could have made it until the day after Christmas just fine. I had food and drink enough, but I was low on canned cat food. So this afternoon, I went down to the supermarket for not just cat food, but to create a new holiday tradition.
I'm realizing that, here in the 21st century, traditions can be generated and extinguished at a fairly quick rate. Why, look at the new holiday tradition of watching "The Interview" on Christmas Day to celebrate free speech and Sony's despicable marketing practices.
In our family as kids, we had a tradition of dad making clam chowder on Christmas Eve. Then we opened presents afterwards. But even this tradition was something that emerged sometime in the 1970s. We had an angel on the top of our tree then. Now I have a star (when I actually put up a tree).
So I decided I would generate my own holiday tradition this year by getting some thin-sliced roast beef and making French dip sandwiches. After all, they were invented just a couple of miles from here at Philipe's in downtown Los Angeles. It made sense that I could take this tradition with me back to the Midwest for next year's Christmas.
When I got to the supermarket, there was not a parking space to be had, even with Steve's handicapped placard at my disposal. After about five minutes, I did get an open space. It was not quite at the far end of the parking lot, but I didn't care. I got my bags out of the trunk and headed into the store. There were only a few shopping carts left outside, but I was lucky enough to get one of them.
So I went inside with my cart and was confronted by the hundreds of other shoppers who had stopped in to pick up a few things. Here and there you could see those who had left all their shopping until Christmas Eve, not only filling their carts with food, but also finding just the perfect gift at the very last minute.
The store had overstocked items they anticipated would be in demand, so the narrow aisles were blocked with bags of flour and sugar, and other staples they had simply piled onto the floor. Add these to the displays that normally block the aisles, and a third of them were simply impassable.
So I picked up the roast beef, the rolls, the au jus mix, the cat food, some Christmas cookies and half & half, which I would run out of Christmas Day after my first cup of coffee. And some danish to go with that coffee.
It was rather dismal. People were either ignoring each other or giving nasty sidelong glances to those folks who were standing, transfixed, blocking the aisles for other shoppers. I gave people smiles and did my best to be polite and make room for other shoppers. Not once did I hear anyone say "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Holidays." It was rather dismal in a frenetic sort of way.
The checkout lines were the same way: people jockeying for position, trying to find the shortest line (which, at this point, was academic). Got back home and lugged the bags in, put groceries away and sat down to ease into Christmas Eve. Planned viewing tonight is "Scrooged" with Bill Murray. I also have a couple versions of "A Christmas Carol" sitting on the DVR so I can speed through the commercials. And "The Wizard of Oz" is on Blu-Ray disc, so my viewing alternatives are solid.
Here's hoping your new year will be an amazing one. I'm looking forward to mine, I know.
I went shopping today.
I didn't have to go to the store today. I could have made it until the day after Christmas just fine. I had food and drink enough, but I was low on canned cat food. So this afternoon, I went down to the supermarket for not just cat food, but to create a new holiday tradition.
I'm realizing that, here in the 21st century, traditions can be generated and extinguished at a fairly quick rate. Why, look at the new holiday tradition of watching "The Interview" on Christmas Day to celebrate free speech and Sony's despicable marketing practices.
In our family as kids, we had a tradition of dad making clam chowder on Christmas Eve. Then we opened presents afterwards. But even this tradition was something that emerged sometime in the 1970s. We had an angel on the top of our tree then. Now I have a star (when I actually put up a tree).
So I decided I would generate my own holiday tradition this year by getting some thin-sliced roast beef and making French dip sandwiches. After all, they were invented just a couple of miles from here at Philipe's in downtown Los Angeles. It made sense that I could take this tradition with me back to the Midwest for next year's Christmas.
When I got to the supermarket, there was not a parking space to be had, even with Steve's handicapped placard at my disposal. After about five minutes, I did get an open space. It was not quite at the far end of the parking lot, but I didn't care. I got my bags out of the trunk and headed into the store. There were only a few shopping carts left outside, but I was lucky enough to get one of them.
So I went inside with my cart and was confronted by the hundreds of other shoppers who had stopped in to pick up a few things. Here and there you could see those who had left all their shopping until Christmas Eve, not only filling their carts with food, but also finding just the perfect gift at the very last minute.
The store had overstocked items they anticipated would be in demand, so the narrow aisles were blocked with bags of flour and sugar, and other staples they had simply piled onto the floor. Add these to the displays that normally block the aisles, and a third of them were simply impassable.
So I picked up the roast beef, the rolls, the au jus mix, the cat food, some Christmas cookies and half & half, which I would run out of Christmas Day after my first cup of coffee. And some danish to go with that coffee.
It was rather dismal. People were either ignoring each other or giving nasty sidelong glances to those folks who were standing, transfixed, blocking the aisles for other shoppers. I gave people smiles and did my best to be polite and make room for other shoppers. Not once did I hear anyone say "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Holidays." It was rather dismal in a frenetic sort of way.
The checkout lines were the same way: people jockeying for position, trying to find the shortest line (which, at this point, was academic). Got back home and lugged the bags in, put groceries away and sat down to ease into Christmas Eve. Planned viewing tonight is "Scrooged" with Bill Murray. I also have a couple versions of "A Christmas Carol" sitting on the DVR so I can speed through the commercials. And "The Wizard of Oz" is on Blu-Ray disc, so my viewing alternatives are solid.
Here's hoping your new year will be an amazing one. I'm looking forward to mine, I know.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
In Between the Holidays
Four days to go until Christmas, and I'm feeling very little holiday cheer.
It's not that I'm depressed (although I do get that way sometimes), just that I haven't really invested anything into the season this year. My one effort was driving up the coast this week to visit with Vena and get together with some other old friends while I was in the area, but it really wasn't holiday oriented or inspired. And, as usual, I took nary a photograph to share.
I avoided driving in the storms we had last weekend, waiting until Wednesday to head up to Grover Beach/Pismo Beach. As Kittie and David both had plans that night, I spent the evening with Vena.
Vena and I have become kind of a support group of two, both having lost a spouse in the last year. I was surprised that we were sharing things, finding common experience in our separate griefs, and feeling much less isolated from the world, feeling much less alone now that the person who was always there by default is permanently absent.
After some egg nog at her house, we went out to Old Juan's in Oceano for dinner, which was Vena's treat. I dropped her off at home and then headed back to the motel.
Thursday morning I slept in, and after having "brunch" at the Denny's next door to the Motel 6, I walked over to the outlet mall. Window shopping was about as close as I got to the merchantile Christmas spirit this year.
Thursday evening there was a get-together planned at Marilyn Blake's house. I got my facts screwed up and ended up arriving an hour early. Marilyn was out walking her dog, so there was no one there when I arrived. After sitting in the car for a half hour, I called Kittie, who informed me that people were arriving at 5:30-6:00, not 4:30-5:00. I sat back and played games on my phone until someone arrived. It turned out that Marilyn walked right past my car (she knew my red Mazda but not Steve's white Saturn, which is what I drive now).
So Marilyn, Kittie, David's sister, Susan, Lisa and Elaine all dropped by. We had some wine and ordered pizzas after David arrived. It was really great to see everyone, and I left feeling connected to all the things that I've been and done, and not just this last year of stress and grief. Several people mentioned that I should get involved in theater again in La Crosse, because I was the best director they had ever worked with.
These are the things I need to be reminded of, because I often forget that there's a lot more than web sites and brochures I excel at creating. As my design professor told me after seeing my stage production of "The Hot L Baltimore," "As a creative force, you're very good on paper, but you're much better on stage."
After the powwow at Marilyn's, Kittie, Dave and Dave's sister and I met at their house in Grover Beach, and I soon headed back to the motel to crash, as I was heading back to Pasadena late Friday morning. It was a quick trip up, but it was mostly to see Vena, because I know how isolated and disengaged she's feeling right now.
It took me less than three hours to drive up, and it was almost four hours heading back, as there were about a half dozen stretches where the traffic was stall-and-crawl (more descriptive than stop-and-go) on the 101. When I got back home, even though I had been gone only two days, Patty was hiding upstairs. A lovely can of fresh cat food was enough to draw her downstairs, and after some time, she was demanding that I make up for all the petting sessions she had missed during my absence.
And now, a holiday interlude from 1963. If Ed Wood Jr. had made a Christmas movie, this would be it. It also provides an insight into what the youth of the 1960s were rebelling against.
Good times. Can anyone say "mealy insipid sexist doggerel"?
While visiting, I suggested to Kittie and David that they come down for New Year's Day, since this was probably the last time we would be able to see the Rose Parade live. At first I was thinking we could go down and stake out a place, sleep on the curb overnight and catch the parade. The more I thought about it, the more I thought the expense of the tickets would be worth having a warm bed the night before. So I checked it out with Sharp Seating (a fellow chamber member and directory advertiser) and ended up getting three tickets in one of the grandstands fairly close to here (it's about an eight-block walk). Not bad for so close to the event.
I have always avoided going down and attending the parade live, as many locals have told me that you get a better view watching it on TV. So this year will be an experiment: I'm going to record the parade on TV, then head down and watch it live and see if they're right. In the end, though, I want to be able to tell folks that, having lived in Pasadena, yes, I did see the Rose Parade in person.
So we'll celebrate New Year's Eve in a very sober manner, hitting the sack right after toasting in the New Year and rising early in time to bake some cinnamon rolls, make some coffee and head down to our viewing stand. Hopefully, Dave will be able to get Friday the 2nd off, so they can stay the weekend rather than having to head back home on the 1st.
If they do leave on New Year's Day, it's a delicate thing: you have to leave between the mass exodus after the parade and before the influx of folks heading to the Rose Bowl for the game. Most years, Steve and I would simply spend New Year's Day at home and wait for the world to vacate the area and leave us to ourselves here in Pasadena.
So I'm thinking that Christmas will just be another day off for me this year. All the decorations are boxed and ready for the move. I do have the tinsel tree from last year, which I plan on deploying sometime in the next few days. Other than that, I want to spend the next week collecting and organizing all the paperwork from this year, so that I'm ready to face the new year (and my 2014 tax return) with confidence.
One tradition I don't want to slip up on, though, is providing my favorite stop-action holiday animation, "Insect's Christmas." It's my holiday greetings to you all.
Hopefully, next year I'll have a more extravagant holiday rejoicing to share. An I will remember to take pictures, too.
It's not that I'm depressed (although I do get that way sometimes), just that I haven't really invested anything into the season this year. My one effort was driving up the coast this week to visit with Vena and get together with some other old friends while I was in the area, but it really wasn't holiday oriented or inspired. And, as usual, I took nary a photograph to share.
I avoided driving in the storms we had last weekend, waiting until Wednesday to head up to Grover Beach/Pismo Beach. As Kittie and David both had plans that night, I spent the evening with Vena.
Vena and I have become kind of a support group of two, both having lost a spouse in the last year. I was surprised that we were sharing things, finding common experience in our separate griefs, and feeling much less isolated from the world, feeling much less alone now that the person who was always there by default is permanently absent.
After some egg nog at her house, we went out to Old Juan's in Oceano for dinner, which was Vena's treat. I dropped her off at home and then headed back to the motel.
Thursday morning I slept in, and after having "brunch" at the Denny's next door to the Motel 6, I walked over to the outlet mall. Window shopping was about as close as I got to the merchantile Christmas spirit this year.
Thursday evening there was a get-together planned at Marilyn Blake's house. I got my facts screwed up and ended up arriving an hour early. Marilyn was out walking her dog, so there was no one there when I arrived. After sitting in the car for a half hour, I called Kittie, who informed me that people were arriving at 5:30-6:00, not 4:30-5:00. I sat back and played games on my phone until someone arrived. It turned out that Marilyn walked right past my car (she knew my red Mazda but not Steve's white Saturn, which is what I drive now).
So Marilyn, Kittie, David's sister, Susan, Lisa and Elaine all dropped by. We had some wine and ordered pizzas after David arrived. It was really great to see everyone, and I left feeling connected to all the things that I've been and done, and not just this last year of stress and grief. Several people mentioned that I should get involved in theater again in La Crosse, because I was the best director they had ever worked with.
These are the things I need to be reminded of, because I often forget that there's a lot more than web sites and brochures I excel at creating. As my design professor told me after seeing my stage production of "The Hot L Baltimore," "As a creative force, you're very good on paper, but you're much better on stage."
After the powwow at Marilyn's, Kittie, Dave and Dave's sister and I met at their house in Grover Beach, and I soon headed back to the motel to crash, as I was heading back to Pasadena late Friday morning. It was a quick trip up, but it was mostly to see Vena, because I know how isolated and disengaged she's feeling right now.
It took me less than three hours to drive up, and it was almost four hours heading back, as there were about a half dozen stretches where the traffic was stall-and-crawl (more descriptive than stop-and-go) on the 101. When I got back home, even though I had been gone only two days, Patty was hiding upstairs. A lovely can of fresh cat food was enough to draw her downstairs, and after some time, she was demanding that I make up for all the petting sessions she had missed during my absence.
And now, a holiday interlude from 1963. If Ed Wood Jr. had made a Christmas movie, this would be it. It also provides an insight into what the youth of the 1960s were rebelling against.
Good times. Can anyone say "mealy insipid sexist doggerel"?
While visiting, I suggested to Kittie and David that they come down for New Year's Day, since this was probably the last time we would be able to see the Rose Parade live. At first I was thinking we could go down and stake out a place, sleep on the curb overnight and catch the parade. The more I thought about it, the more I thought the expense of the tickets would be worth having a warm bed the night before. So I checked it out with Sharp Seating (a fellow chamber member and directory advertiser) and ended up getting three tickets in one of the grandstands fairly close to here (it's about an eight-block walk). Not bad for so close to the event.
I have always avoided going down and attending the parade live, as many locals have told me that you get a better view watching it on TV. So this year will be an experiment: I'm going to record the parade on TV, then head down and watch it live and see if they're right. In the end, though, I want to be able to tell folks that, having lived in Pasadena, yes, I did see the Rose Parade in person.
So we'll celebrate New Year's Eve in a very sober manner, hitting the sack right after toasting in the New Year and rising early in time to bake some cinnamon rolls, make some coffee and head down to our viewing stand. Hopefully, Dave will be able to get Friday the 2nd off, so they can stay the weekend rather than having to head back home on the 1st.
If they do leave on New Year's Day, it's a delicate thing: you have to leave between the mass exodus after the parade and before the influx of folks heading to the Rose Bowl for the game. Most years, Steve and I would simply spend New Year's Day at home and wait for the world to vacate the area and leave us to ourselves here in Pasadena.
So I'm thinking that Christmas will just be another day off for me this year. All the decorations are boxed and ready for the move. I do have the tinsel tree from last year, which I plan on deploying sometime in the next few days. Other than that, I want to spend the next week collecting and organizing all the paperwork from this year, so that I'm ready to face the new year (and my 2014 tax return) with confidence.
One tradition I don't want to slip up on, though, is providing my favorite stop-action holiday animation, "Insect's Christmas." It's my holiday greetings to you all.
Hopefully, next year I'll have a more extravagant holiday rejoicing to share. An I will remember to take pictures, too.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
I'm Thankful That I'm Thankful
I wrote the headline about a week ago, but then the directory got the better of me and I've been lost in chamber-of-commerce land for the last couple days. I'm about halfway through the alphabetical index, a process of searching the entire document for the 1200 member names and listing upon which page the member is featured.
Also, I just got the final correction list from Kelly at the chamber, and half of the short list is already taken care of. So the rest of the evening will be spent fixing typos, tweaking elements and finishing the index. I will not go to bed until I have a finalized book to hand off to them.
My last post was about a week before Thanksgiving, if I recall correctly (and I do). At that point I was facing the Thanksgiving weekend on my own. But Kittie called up, saying she and David were thinking about coming down here for the holiday. The day after I wrote the last post, they called to say they would be coming down. I take care of the turkey, Kittie does the side dishes.
They showed up around 10 p.m. on Wednesday, having zipped through from Grover Beach with very little traffic: seems everyone was heading out of L.A., so the congestion was on the other side of the freeway. I had gone out the day before and purchased a fresh turkey hen, and Kittie arrived with her coolers filled with side-dish makin's.
I only remember three things from their visit: 1. It's so nice to have other people's voices in the house; 2. We got to the final two-guy tasks, like packing Christmas and the remaining artwork for shipping, and; 3. I realized Punkin Chunkin, or at least its spirit, will have to be woven into my new life if I am to truly embrace the Midwest.
I researched it, and Punkin Chunkin is first mentioned in the 12/1/09 blog entry "'Tis the Season to Be Dealt With." When Kittie called on Saturday to say they might be coming down, I said, "I'll record Punkin Chunkin for Dave." And I did.
The production quality had improved quite a bit in the past few years, and they now had hosts from the cable show "Mythbusters," which helped give it some cohesion. Then there was a special called "Superchunk" where they hurled pianos and small cars and a half-ton pumpkin and such through the air with trebuchets.
So Kittie cooked the meal on Thanksgiving, and it was really good. We had enough for leftovers on Friday and turkey a la king on Saturday. Also on Saturday, we went out to Andy's for brunch and then to Arclight Pasadena to see "Interstellar." I was really disappointed. Really.
They left Sunday afternoon and suddenly the house was silent again, and emptier than even. The cleaning ladies were supposed to come last Wednesday, but their schedule shifted and I said they could come on Monday (yesterday), which they did. So now the house is minimalist, all the surfaces shining, only the akimbo window screens destroying the perception of modernity on a budget.
So now I'm wrapping this up, as I have to return to the indexing chore. The cat is once again lying on the desk, head encumbering the mouse pad just enough to be a bother. She knows if she doesn't make room, she's off the desk until my work is done, so she's fairly cooperative about it.
Also, I just got the final correction list from Kelly at the chamber, and half of the short list is already taken care of. So the rest of the evening will be spent fixing typos, tweaking elements and finishing the index. I will not go to bed until I have a finalized book to hand off to them.
My last post was about a week before Thanksgiving, if I recall correctly (and I do). At that point I was facing the Thanksgiving weekend on my own. But Kittie called up, saying she and David were thinking about coming down here for the holiday. The day after I wrote the last post, they called to say they would be coming down. I take care of the turkey, Kittie does the side dishes.
 |
| The rolls are always the last on the table: TRADITION! |
I only remember three things from their visit: 1. It's so nice to have other people's voices in the house; 2. We got to the final two-guy tasks, like packing Christmas and the remaining artwork for shipping, and; 3. I realized Punkin Chunkin, or at least its spirit, will have to be woven into my new life if I am to truly embrace the Midwest.
 |
| Kittie's photo provides a bird's eye view of the bird. |
The production quality had improved quite a bit in the past few years, and they now had hosts from the cable show "Mythbusters," which helped give it some cohesion. Then there was a special called "Superchunk" where they hurled pianos and small cars and a half-ton pumpkin and such through the air with trebuchets.
So Kittie cooked the meal on Thanksgiving, and it was really good. We had enough for leftovers on Friday and turkey a la king on Saturday. Also on Saturday, we went out to Andy's for brunch and then to Arclight Pasadena to see "Interstellar." I was really disappointed. Really.
They left Sunday afternoon and suddenly the house was silent again, and emptier than even. The cleaning ladies were supposed to come last Wednesday, but their schedule shifted and I said they could come on Monday (yesterday), which they did. So now the house is minimalist, all the surfaces shining, only the akimbo window screens destroying the perception of modernity on a budget.
So now I'm wrapping this up, as I have to return to the indexing chore. The cat is once again lying on the desk, head encumbering the mouse pad just enough to be a bother. She knows if she doesn't make room, she's off the desk until my work is done, so she's fairly cooperative about it.
Friday, November 21, 2014
An Elaborate Elaboration
I read over the post I made yesterday (posted just after midnight today, actually), and I wanted to go a little further into those very dark subjects that I touched upon.
No, I shall not be offing myself anytime soon. I have no such desire. But, reflecting upon things, I realize that the notion of self-destruction and personal annihilation is a theme that winds itself through what I have experienced as the grieving process.
Another off-the-wall reaction to Steve's death, even after a year of trying to process it is "You killed him." It's a Harry Potter approach: I should have been able to whip out my wand, wave it with an incantation and made Steve stay here with me forever. So I'm the one who let him down.
With this mode of thinking, you look for all the moments that you could have stepped in and saved the day. Even with something as uncontrollable as stage 4 cancer, why didn't I have the knowledge, that Heloisesque bit of homespun insight that would have rectified the situation ("Inhaling warm peanut butter will remove even the most stubborn tumors!")?
Turn that delusional thinking on its head and it becomes Steve being the selfish son of a bitch who went and left me alone right when our love and life together was blossoming into what we knew it could be. It's thoughtless, just cold, to turn around and die like that. Just see if I buy him a wedding anniversary present this year!
Waking up wanting to die (or with that thought in my head) is returning to the conscious knowledge, each day, that I am alone and I don't want to be. Some kind of magical thinking (which we all share) convinced me that we would be together forever. It was just that good, that rewarding, to share my life with him. And just when I trusted that he was sharing his back, it up and left him. And if that's not his fault, it must somehow be mine. The Western mindset requires someone to blame.
These modes of magical, nonsensical thinking swim through my head every day. As someone who was trying to convince me to accept Jesus into my heart once told me, "If you believe in flying saucers, why can't you believe in the risen savior?"
OK…Let me mull that one over.
There are lots of extraterrestrial-based shows on cable these days. My favorite is Ancient Aliens, where people postulate the most absurd things. They started with the "Chariots of the Gods" premise and, over the decades, have enlarged and embellished upon the concept.
So, the aliens built the pyramids. The aliens drew the Nazca lines. The aliens parted the Red Sea for Moses after handing him the 10 commandments. The Ark of the Covenant was an alien telecommunications device. Jesus ascended to the Mother Ship. The aliens caused the Renaissance. The aliens built Disneyland.
Aliens also supposedly provided us with the transistor, the integrated circuit, Teflon, Mylar, the internet and self-flushing toilets. Why is it humans can come up with an intriguing concept and then turn it into an elaborate silly and stilted belief system that makes them look crazy? And why do these people not accept that humans were as intelligent, insightful and innovative thousands of years ago as they are now?
Give us the time and the resources and in a decade we can go from unreliable exploding rockets to landing people on the moon. Why couldn't an army of workers build a pyramid in a lifetime? People are incredible at whatever they set out to do. Our compassion is just as expansive as our ability to hate each other. We are wonders; it's our choices that get us into trouble.
And what are my choices right now? I'm not sure. Am I using the grief to block my way, or do I have to surmount it in order to continue on? I'm not sure. Part of going through a life-changing process like this is that you just don't have the answers experience provides. Friends, even parents dying is one kind of grief. Losing your spouse is another thing altogether.
I keep falling back on what so many people have told me: Give yourself room, let things happen in their own time, all will be well in the end. I noted today that, having taken off my wedding ring six weeks ago on the anniversary of Steve's death, I still have a dent where it lived on my finger. And I still catch myself reaching to absentmindedly fiddle with a ring that's no longer there.
These things do take time.
Death was nowhere in my mind as I woke up today. I'm feeling good about life. It's more likely that chronic procrastination is my immediate enemy, not self-loathing or self-destruction. Generating distractions to keep me from moving forward is my greatest obstacle right now.
This puts me in mind of my favorite line from the film "Up":
"SQUIRREL!"
No, I shall not be offing myself anytime soon. I have no such desire. But, reflecting upon things, I realize that the notion of self-destruction and personal annihilation is a theme that winds itself through what I have experienced as the grieving process.
Another off-the-wall reaction to Steve's death, even after a year of trying to process it is "You killed him." It's a Harry Potter approach: I should have been able to whip out my wand, wave it with an incantation and made Steve stay here with me forever. So I'm the one who let him down.
With this mode of thinking, you look for all the moments that you could have stepped in and saved the day. Even with something as uncontrollable as stage 4 cancer, why didn't I have the knowledge, that Heloisesque bit of homespun insight that would have rectified the situation ("Inhaling warm peanut butter will remove even the most stubborn tumors!")?
Turn that delusional thinking on its head and it becomes Steve being the selfish son of a bitch who went and left me alone right when our love and life together was blossoming into what we knew it could be. It's thoughtless, just cold, to turn around and die like that. Just see if I buy him a wedding anniversary present this year!
Waking up wanting to die (or with that thought in my head) is returning to the conscious knowledge, each day, that I am alone and I don't want to be. Some kind of magical thinking (which we all share) convinced me that we would be together forever. It was just that good, that rewarding, to share my life with him. And just when I trusted that he was sharing his back, it up and left him. And if that's not his fault, it must somehow be mine. The Western mindset requires someone to blame.
These modes of magical, nonsensical thinking swim through my head every day. As someone who was trying to convince me to accept Jesus into my heart once told me, "If you believe in flying saucers, why can't you believe in the risen savior?"
OK…Let me mull that one over.
There are lots of extraterrestrial-based shows on cable these days. My favorite is Ancient Aliens, where people postulate the most absurd things. They started with the "Chariots of the Gods" premise and, over the decades, have enlarged and embellished upon the concept.
So, the aliens built the pyramids. The aliens drew the Nazca lines. The aliens parted the Red Sea for Moses after handing him the 10 commandments. The Ark of the Covenant was an alien telecommunications device. Jesus ascended to the Mother Ship. The aliens caused the Renaissance. The aliens built Disneyland.
Aliens also supposedly provided us with the transistor, the integrated circuit, Teflon, Mylar, the internet and self-flushing toilets. Why is it humans can come up with an intriguing concept and then turn it into an elaborate silly and stilted belief system that makes them look crazy? And why do these people not accept that humans were as intelligent, insightful and innovative thousands of years ago as they are now?
Give us the time and the resources and in a decade we can go from unreliable exploding rockets to landing people on the moon. Why couldn't an army of workers build a pyramid in a lifetime? People are incredible at whatever they set out to do. Our compassion is just as expansive as our ability to hate each other. We are wonders; it's our choices that get us into trouble.
And what are my choices right now? I'm not sure. Am I using the grief to block my way, or do I have to surmount it in order to continue on? I'm not sure. Part of going through a life-changing process like this is that you just don't have the answers experience provides. Friends, even parents dying is one kind of grief. Losing your spouse is another thing altogether.
I keep falling back on what so many people have told me: Give yourself room, let things happen in their own time, all will be well in the end. I noted today that, having taken off my wedding ring six weeks ago on the anniversary of Steve's death, I still have a dent where it lived on my finger. And I still catch myself reaching to absentmindedly fiddle with a ring that's no longer there.
These things do take time.
Death was nowhere in my mind as I woke up today. I'm feeling good about life. It's more likely that chronic procrastination is my immediate enemy, not self-loathing or self-destruction. Generating distractions to keep me from moving forward is my greatest obstacle right now.
This puts me in mind of my favorite line from the film "Up":
"SQUIRREL!"
Oblivion Is Just Too Boring
Another two weeks with nothing really interesting to report. The time has been taken up mostly with putting together the chamber of commerce directory. It's been a longer process this year, since I decided to forgo working in columns, which means making each spread, each page, a design on its own, and yet congruent throughout the book.
Of course, the directory portion is in columns; kind of hard to create linear, alphabetized entries without having them fall into rows. But the front of the book is all open, with lots of negative space. I like it. More important, so does Paul at the chamber, who signs the checks.
I met with Kelly (the powerhouse of the chamber who seems to make everything go) last Friday. She is heading up proofing the back of the directory and coordinating ad sales (which, thankfully, are closed now, although Kelly slipped a full-page ad in under the wire and Paul added one today).
At our meeting, I told her that the front of the book would be done tomorrow (the 21st). She called back on Monday and said Paul needed it on Wednesday, so the last couple days have been working like mad to get as much done as possible. I handed off the PDF of the front at 3 p.m. on Wednesday, and Paul stopped by today with the corrections they'd done.
We went over the corrections and revisions up in the office this afternoon, and Paul said he would be more than willing to have me design the book next year from La Crosse (I did not ask; he offered). "We do it all by e-mails now anyway," he said. At least I know this chunk of work will follow me across state lines.
Meanwhile, my mental condition has been going this way and that. I talked with my friend Vena, whose husband died in September. I was on the phone with her last night (Kittie was over there visiting, so I got to talk to both of them), and Vena was very open about us being in the same boat. Talking to her, I realized that I still cry a lot (a couple times a day, though for only a minute or two), that I'm lonely and sad most of the time, and that I am pitifully unable to enjoy being alone.
And although I don't consider myself suicidal, there are at least two mornings a week when I wake up with the thought "I just want to die" at the front of my mind. On bad mornings I might even say it aloud. Then my eyes open, the cat is sitting up on the bed, waiting for me to rise, go downstairs and get her breakfast. Once I collect myself, stretch out the stiff muscles and head down the stairs, I'm feeling better, focusing on what the day will bring.
The one time in my life I seriously considered a suicidal thought (a winter evening in 1972 in Ithaca, New York, when I had nowhere to be), I ended up thinking, "Fuck 'em; I won't give them the satisfaction, they're not worth it." In a few days I was in Syracuse, spending the holidays with an aunt I never met, Aunt Kit, who ended up sharing the last few decades of her life living with my mother.
And with all those mornings waking up wanting "to die," I have never expended any mentation on just how I would do it; the thought never goes that far before I'm fully conscious. It was only a week ago that I realized if I committed suicide, I'd have to leave a note, and I would never stoop to write such a whiny, self-pitying or even explanatory tome.
Then I had a realization about that little voice that grumbled, "I want to die," as I awoke. It was really saying, "I don't want to live." There's a big difference, because you can be alive and never live, but dead is dead.
And that's agoraphobia: being alive but not living. Existing without leaving a mark. That's just fucked up. Steve was the one who always kicked me in the ass when I wanted to give in to my agoraphobia, and that's one of the millions of things I miss about him. Another is doing the dishes after I make dinner. I've gotten good at keeping up with the dishes on my own, so I'm sure, with a little practice, I can kick myself in my own ass.
Working on the directory has really helped me to feel better in the last couple weeks, but sitting in front of the computer for too long is not good for my back, so I have started putting an hour and a half on my phone's timer, so that I don't sit at the computer for longer than that. A ten-minute break is all I need to keep the muscles from cramping up.
I just got the good news that Kittie and Dave are coming down for Thanksgiving, which means I've got to get a turkey this weekend. They came down for Thanksgiving 2012, and that was when David discovered Punkin Chunkin on the science channel (people design machines and try to hurl pumpkins the farthest). After about two hours of it, Steve got irritated and asked Dave to turn on something else. Afterward, he said, "No more Punkin Chunkin ever." It was one of the few times I knew him to be so inflexible, but the stuff really bugged him.
During one of the many times Dave came down on the weekend and helped with the remodel and keeping me sane, I told him that I would rescind the edict. "You can watched Punkin Chunkin as much as you want." So when Kittie mentioned on the phone while with Vena that they might come down, I checked out when Punkin Chunkin would air. I recorded Punkin Chunkin 2013 this evening, and the show from this year will be airing on Saturday after Thanksgiving, so Dave is guaranteed at least four hours of gourd-hurling fun.
And I have a suspicion that we will be digging through the packed boxes downstairs to find stuff that we need to make Thanksgiving dinner, as I packed thinking there would be no holiday celebrations again this year. I'm beginning to realize that the universe happens the way it wants, offering us choices much like Schrodinger's cat got. We're just vain enough to think we're making all those life decisions by ourselves.
Looking at it that way, God seems like a logical conclusion.
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