Today it’s in the 90s.
Hot, sweat-inducing weather.
As I walked by my neighbor’s yard, he called out, “Hi, Tracy! Nice day!”
I replied, “A little toasty for my taste.”
His response: “I still remember January.”
Point well taken. Although, who’s to say these starlings weren’t a bit overheated?
Two weeks ago I did something ill-advised, something I knew better than to do. Two weeks ago, I got tired of seeing one of my gigantic yarrow plants (5+ feet tall) crowding out one of my blue mist spirea plants (maybe 2 feet tall). So I grabbed my cutter and went out to trim back the yarrow. Dumb, dumb, dumb! Yarrow plants have the toughest, woodiest stems of any plant in my yard, and I know better than to touch it without gloves.
Sure enough, I managed to impale the middle knuckle of my right hand on old growth from last year. Instant agony. Stream of profanity. Regret, pain, and nearly instantaneous swelling.
I dug out a splinter and waited for the injury to resolve itself. Instead, it swelled more, became more painful (possibly due to me knocking it into everything), and turned into a fleshy mood-ring that alternated between pink and angry red and blue and purple and, oh-my-goddess-now-it’s-starting-to-look-black.
Imagine this is my knuckle, minus the lovely silver setting.
I hung in there until this past Saturday when pus showed up, and I finally went to the doctor. With the use of groovy magnifying goggles and the finest pair of tweezers I’ve seen, she removed a splinter and gave me a prescription for antibiotics. Five days later, the mood ring was as angry as ever and the knuckle was so sore I nearly wept whenever anything touched it.
So yesterday after swallowing the last antibiotic pill, I returned to the doctor’s office where she donned the goggles again and poked at me with the sharp tweezers I wasn’t liking nearly as much, until she found a small splinter. Hooray. Not. I was sure I was in for weeks of tiny splinter removal as the cursed yarrow worked its multiple evils out of my flesh. Then she started digging some more as I gritted my teeth and curled my toes. A long moment later, she said, “Here’s one.” Another tiny piece stuck up from my knuckle. Hooray? And then she grasped it with the tweezers, and it was like a magician pulling a scarf from a sleeve.
One half-inch long.
I realize the gargantuan image is overkill, but I cannot stress enough how freakin’ huge that thing seemed when she pulled it out. We both made loud exclamations of the “Holy crap, Batman!” variety.
Last night for the first time in weeks my poor old knuckle wasn’t stiff and sore, and today I can make a fist without any pain. I can start lifting weights again! I can punch someone in the snoot without feeling (much) pain! I’ve got my life back!
Life is grand and I wish everyone a wonderful, splinter-free weekend!
It’s slow-going on my YA, but I’m making progress despite the usual distractions:
All that’s hard enough, but now I have these lovable cats in the house and they demand my attention.
A few minutes ago I was working on my manuscript as Marcel sat in the window behind me, looking at birds and making that funny chuckling sound cats make when they see something they’d like to de-feather, but I was stoic and blocked out his bizarre noises to keep writing. Until, that is, he climbed over my shoulder and down onto my chest where he curled up and aimed his big goofy eyes at me. Really, I’m supposed to have the willpower to ignore such overt emotional manipulation?
And how about his brother Loki who has no respect for my writing boundaries or, for that matter, any boundary?
Maybe I’m supposed to treat him like a Muse?
Stockings up since Christmas Eve plus Valentine’s Day card from 2012 or so.
I really like Zebu’s physics class work-in-progress, but the kitchen probably isn’t the most sensible place to create a mobile.
However, we’re all adapting.
Zippy made a delicious pot of soup despite the influence of those stinky shoes, and Loki seems content to stroll beneath the teetering creation. So I guess it’s my issue if I smack my head on one of the poles.
Our hearts broke when we had to say goodbye to Lebowski and his awesome dudeness, and I can still close my eyes and feel the purring weight of him on my outstretched hand. Lebowski and his energy were unique, yet that energy was a subset of Feline Energy, and after he was gone I didn’t just miss him, but also the energy that only comes from cats.
Please welcome Loki:
The consummate trickster.
and his brother Marcel:
“Give me a thick rubber band and I’m a happy guy.”
They are wonderful cats and I look forward to sharing their escapades, but for now here’s a major insight: A benefit to having one all-black and one all-white cat is that the high contrast makes it easy to see who’s doing what during wrestling matches:
Marcel bunny-punching Loki’s head.
It’s been snowing wet concrete all day, but after my first shoveling shift I was rewarded with lots of bird action in the back yard. Turns out robins and starlings like to hang together.
The water droplets on the window alter this starling’s appearance, but I still love the shot.
Then there’s this head-on view of a robin. Who knew they could look so menacing?
The European Starling is considered an invasive species, but I’m always happy when they stop by for a visit. Look east, my feathered friend!
It’s that special day again, when children and adults are encouraged to put their heartfelt emotions on public display, whether those feelings are authentic or not.
I appreciated my son’s sentiment years ago when he made and shared this Valentine with his classmates:
But this one from Wildebeest is my all-time favorite:
HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY TO ALL OF YOU! (AND I REALLY AND TRULY MEAN THAT FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART!)
Our Coco is suffering some mystery ailment now, crying out in pain associated with her right back leg. It came on suddenly Tuesday at 5 p.m., and the vet doesn’t have a diagnosis.
Our vet is also our neighbor, and she just took Coco with her to the clinic for further examination.
I want to know what’s wrong, and yet, I don’t want to know. I’ve had many canine companions over the years, and I’m not ready for another round of break-your-heart-in-two.
Years ago, my mother bought me a multi-colored wool sweater from L.L. Bean. I wore it often when substitute teaching in Anchorage, and sometimes felt too warm but still loved it because wool seems to provide a psychological barrier against cold and dark. At least, that’s how I see it.
A year or two later, I purchased a longer/larger wool sweater while at the Alaska State Fair. It was made with different shades of blue and purple yarn, and every time I put it on, remembered that day at the fair. Specifically, riding the Scrambler with Zippy, laughing while our friends Anne and Jim (who I hoped to make a couple) rode in another car and blushingly struggled to maintain some distance between them as the laws of physics smushed them together.
About ten years ago I went to the People’s Fair in Denver on a hot, hot summer day and, in a fit of counter-intuitive behavior, tried on wool sweaters. I ended up buying a black and white one that was handmade in Ecuador, a stunning sweater that came with a jaunty little hat. I couldn’t wait for the temperatures to drop. Later that winter I wore my new sweater across the street to my neighbors’ house where a bunch of people shouted SURPRISE! and squirted me with silly string to help celebrate my 40th birthday.
Beautiful sweaters, all.
I kept them in my closet in Anchorage and then here in Colorado, up on a shelf for easy access. Then one day I decided to put them in a zippered bag and store that bag in a bin beneath my bed. Last weekend I got cold and went to the storage bin for my large made-in-Alaska sweater. I pulled it out and put it on, thinking something felt different. As I walked back down the hallway, a wooden button dropped from the sweater. I ran my hands over the wool and realized it’d changed.
MOTHS! CATERPILLARS! DESTRUCTION! EWW!
Apparently I’d sealed my sweaters away for safekeeping with a moth who got very lucky. And very busy.
I said goodbye to those glorious wool sweaters and threw them in the garbage, encased in their zipper bag. However, I’m still having difficulty getting that imagery and tactile sensation out of my mind, and it doesn’t help that I found a caterpillar in my cleavage a few minutes after putting on the sweater. (Like I said, EWW!)
All that’s left is my little hat. Still out on the deck because I’ve been afraid to bring it back inside. Here it is in all it’s Ecuadoran wool glory:
But now that I’ve handled it in order to get a photo, maybe I’m brave enough to give it another chance in the house. I’m not yet ready to wear it, though. Perhaps it should be my gift to Coco.
Last week I turned 50 years old.
(image from morguefile.com matthew_hull)
Even when the birthday isn’t a major psychological milestone,
it’s hard for me to feel celebratory in late November
when the days are short and the gloom seems to stretch on forever.
Which is why I planned ahead and made arrangements for our family
to fly to San Diego and stay in a condo on the beach in Oceanside.
I really, really wanted solid family-bonding time because our
last few tumultuous years yielded less-than-heartwarming vacations.
This family time would be different, dammit!
And it was.
Wildebeest and I took morning walks on the beach,
talking and laughing.
Zebu and I shared a nighttime stroll,
watching the silhouettes of shorebirds
in the lights of the distant pier.
There was football, Frisbee, and boogie-boarding.
Sunshine,
surfers,
and sanderlings (my favorite busy-busy shorebird).
I saw dolphins just beyond the line of surfers, gracefully cutting through the water,
and Zebu got to see his first sunsets over the Pacific; he took this photo from our balcony:
I shot pool for the first time in years and regaled my sons with tales of
my many years playing in bars and pool halls. My performance was
streaky, but I made enough good shots that Zebu commented it was
obvious I used to play a lot. (Score one for Mom!)
Months ago when I made arrangements, my plan was to
celebrate my birthday by running on the beach for 50 minutes,
and run I did (along with Zippy). My altitude lungs were tickled to
be at sea level, my trail-running feet were grateful for the mostly
flat beach, and my bird-loving heart was thrilled by the constant
presence of gulls, pelicans, crows, willets, and curlews. I smiled
and waved and called out greetings to my feathered friends as I ran.
We went 5.69 miles in those 50 minutes, the final mile our fastest.
Then we soaked in a hot tub.
Now we’re back home in Colorado dealing with our real lives, the
skin-shriveling dry air, and a lack of happy-inducing negative ions.
However, I’ve got a mental scrapbook filled with wonderful memories and a
healthy start on how I’ll define life after fifty.
Plus this lovely souvenir from our family vacation in Oceanside, California.
It’s been a while since I shared anything about Wildebeest and Zebu
so I dedicate this Friday’s post to the boys.
1) Wildebeest opted to not attend college and is living in a duplex
with a bunch of guys, some of them students and others co-workers
from Casa Bonita. He’s quite content with his life, and he and I have
lots of phone conversations. Now that we no longer live together
we’re free to like each other again.
Self-portrait from years ago.
2) Wildebeest has a new friend he calls Bernice. He adopted her
from a cat rescue place and they love each other very much. I
bought her some cat toys and only felt slightly grandma-esque.
3) Zebu is a junior this year and last night I went to his teacher
conferences. He’s doing very well and I was an especially proud
mother when two teachers in a row told me they appreciated
his sarcastic sense of humor.
Old passport photo we just updated this week.
4) We’re easing into basketball season and Zebu is looking
forward to being a taller, stronger player this year. He lifts weights
at school and the club but is kind enough to help me with my form
as I lift at home. (Turns out I was rocking my body during hammer curls).
5) Wildebeest is coming over on Monday night to watch the Broncos-
Chargers game and while I usually take those opportunities to disappear,
I think I’ll stick around and watch the game with the menfolk.
Wishing everyone a beautiful, autumnal weekend!
I’m sure all sorts of other stuff has been going on but it feels as if it’s been CARS – 24/7.
image from morguefile.com (by Gracey)
Oy.
The front left fender is smashed in but no one got hurt so it’s all okay.
I haven’t started in on the insurance issue yet because I need a little more rest before I’m ready to tackle all that.
Oh, and the brakes?
There’s nothing wrong with them.
We found out, however, that there was a recall on another pump which was replaced at the dealer yesterday
and we’re hoping the ensuing electrical failure was what caused the brakes to go out.
For some reason Zebu only wants to drive the Subaru.
I'm this side of exhausted.
image from morguefile.com
Thanks for asking, though.
1) Whenever fifteen-year-old Zebu winks at me, I swing between feelings of admiration and intimidation since I’ve never felt confident enough of my winking ability to do so.
image from morguefile.com
2) At my suggestion eighteen-year-old Wildebeest is reading Stephen King’s MISERY, and enjoying himself mightily.
3) Zoey and Coco want me to remember that when I choose to bathe them and
spray them with water, I must be prepared for the relationship to suffer a loss of trust.
© Tracy Abell 2012
4) Zippy is reading a library e-copy of 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami, a 944-page
novel, and was thrilled to discover even though his copy is overdue he can
still read it as long as he doesn’t close the file.
5) I’ve been battling flu-like symptoms much of the week but plan to get
on the treadmill in a couple hours for my cardio workout, and hope to feel
those “endolphins” kick in (so I’m, in the words of Zippy, “swimming in the dolphin tank.”)
image from morguefile.com
Wishing everyone a lovely weekend!
I share a home with three males,
and often feel odd-person-out.
Males and females are different in many ways,
and I'm not just talking an appreciation of farts.
In addition to the gender gap there are also generational divides
between Zippy and me, and our teenage sons.
Oldsters and youngsters don't always have the same outlooks,
and not just because certain people can stay up all night.
There's also the whole issue of us being individuals,
which fosters our unique perspectives on the world.
When I think about it this way, it's nearly a miracle
the four of us can agree on anything.
But we do.
And on days of particularly bumpy familial relations
(I'm looking at you, Today!),
I find it helpful to reflect on the list of our shared interests:
1) All four of us love Arrested Development!
2) All four of us love The Clash!
3) All four of us love Indian food!
4) All four of us love March Madness!
If you were to draw a Venn Diagram of this household,
those would be the four major points of intersection
between Zippy, Wildebeest, Zebu, and me.
And as you know, we are now in the month of March
which means we can focus on our shared passion for non-stop college basketball.
Save this family, March Madness!
Exhibit A:
Exhibit B:
Exhibit C:
Just finished vacuuming.
Again.
As soon as I put the vacuum away, the floor was already sprinkled with hair.
Why's that, Tracy?
I dunno.
Why don't you ask Zoey?
Anyone know how to attach a shop vac to a dog?
We've already gotten at least a foot of snow and it keeps falling.
Zippy filled the feeder and put out another suet cake this morning
and it's a feeding frenzy out there.
I was just making pumpkin pies and kept stopping to snap photos.
This guy's up on the wire overlooking the scene, and the various jays (blue, western scrub)
keep flying to adjacent wires where they appear to be taunting him.
The hawk doesn't seem to much care
and comes across as rather zen-like amidst all the hubbub.
Zebu suggested drawing a bikini on this little pear butt:
1) Wildebeest thanked me this week for not letting him watch much television
when he was little because he believes that made him a good reader.
2) While I drove Zebu and his friend to school Tuesday morning, Zebu laughed
at one of my jokes! In front of his friend!
3) Wildebeest ate an entire helping of Zippy's curry the other night and said,
"This is really good."
4) Last month Zebu complimented me on my texting speed.
5) Grasshoppers have some seriously trippy gription going on:
© Tracy Abell 2011
Wishing everyone a wonder-filled weekend!
A little over two weeks ago I shared the sad tale of my old juniper tree,
and today finally summoned the courage to call an arborist.
He just left after telling me (1) the tree will survive and (2) there's nothing to be done
for another year or so except (3) to pray for forgiveness. I thought he meant the tree
forgiving me but realized he meant me forgiving my neighbor.
I feel somewhat better although still cannot look at that old tree without flinching.
And tearing up.
In regards to my stuckness on my work-in-progress, this past weekend I printed out
everything I'd written so far (30k words!) and read it in one sitting. After taking some notes,
I knew I needed to go back and rework some stuff before moving ahead. I'm struggling
with the rewrites but am no longer panicked that fixing stuff will slow my momentum
to the point that I'll never finish the draft.
I will finish this draft! Hear, universe?
As for my web site, nothing's happening there. I still don't know how to proceed.
I guess two out of three ain't bad.
Now, here's a gratuitous squirrel shot: 
My heart hurts.
I’m not even sure where to begin with this story
that involves an eccentric old juniper tree and a neighbor.
Short story: neighbor didn’t like eccentric juniper tree
that grew behind my fence in a Dr. Seuss-like fashion,
and over the years advocated for cutting it down because
the not-conventionally-attractive tree interfered with her view.
I defended the tree on the grounds it partially blocked my
view of the enormous new house down the hill but also
stated that I liked the tree because it had character.
Neighbor continued to advocate for removal and last year
I begrudgingly said she could cut off the very top five feet or
so of the droopy, swamp creature-esque tree. Neighbor
did nothing until one night this past week when we had another
conversation about the tree. I repeated that I liked the tree because it had
character and because it blocked the house below, but that she could top it off.
I’m sure you’ve guessed what happened.
On Saturday afternoon, while I was home and completely unaware,
my neighbor came into my yard, went behind the fence and butchered the tree
so that it now just reaches above the fence.
As soon as I walk onto my patio and face downhill, I see the scarred remains jutting over
the fence. Behind it I see the enormous house down below. Then I close my eyes
and see the off-center, funky old juniper that used to provide habitat for birds and squirrels.
I’m crying as I write this.
I feel as if I let down that tree, that I should not have made any assumptions
about how it would be treated by my neighbor.
I wish I could rewind the tape and handle the whole situation differently.
Yesterday while I was writing a letter to my neighbor about the hurt and anger I felt,
Zippy discovered a card from her in our front door.
Neighbor’s card said a tree was being planted in a National Forest in my honor
and also that she’d plant another tree behind the fence if I wished.
She apologized and said she’d never do that again.
My anger is mostly gone but I cannot shake the sadness.
I’m not sure how to move forward.
It feels disrespectful to leave the tree as is but I don’t know if I can cut it down.
Yesterday morning when I stood next to it, crying, a bird flew from the lower branches.
This whole situation has affected my health and I can’t see how it’s ever going to get easier.
Whenever I face that direction I’ll either see where the tree used to be or its mangled remains.
Neither feels like a good choice.
Oddly enough, I can’t summon the energy to get started.
So for now, I’m basking in the memory of what once was.
2) but by that evening all euphoria was gone due to a Wildebeest implosion,
3) and we were forced to sort through the rubble.
Tracy Abell 