First off, let me just announce once again that my husband is a saint. Currently he is making a frittata in our totally messed up kitchen as a follow up to the homemade pesto he made last night. I swear if it weren't for him I wouldn't have eaten in 2 days. Now that I've gotten that out of the way I can go on to address what's really going on in our lives. Basically we've been living without a kitchen or bathroom for about a week. I blame Swiss Coffee.
I think I've eluded to the upcoming changes that are coming up for us but have not gone into detail. There is a method to my madness in the fact that this has to be a staged communication to people here. Until those stakeholders are informed, my blog readers are just going to have to settle with me being mysterious and alluring.
We've decided to begin some home improvement projects, namely painting. The last thing I painted was the deck and before that I was 14 and "hired" by Pop (my grandfather) to paint the white fence that bordered the perimeter of their acre upon acre ranch. I was a terrible painter. Paint was mushed into the bristles and I was turpentined daily before being allowed back into the house.
My Dad never really "encouraged" us to explore with paint in our rooms. He was the family decorator as Mom was colorblind. In our house on the hill he chose the palate of gray. Gray walls, gray carpet, gray, gray, gray. God forbid we wanted to put up a blue. All of this work was professionally done. Before that house on the hill, the palate was off white in our house in the city. We had Jack and Roy, two brothers who were meticulous in their oil based application. They would come and eat my Mom's fresh baked cookies (she always made them for any service professional who was called - plumber, electrician, you name it), sip coffee, and paint. Even one time they did a small babysitting stint for us while Mom was out with a headache. My brother couldn't pronounce Roy's name so he just turned into "Ro." As far as my Dad was concerned, Jack and Ro were Gods when it came to managing the sheen, even application, and hard lines of painting. He would sing their praises when he came home. I think that with that early experience I thought that painting was and should be left to the masters. Clearly it was difficult.
When I finally bought my own home 4 years ago, I began to dream of painting my walls various hues. It was a pipe dream and I never even mustered the gusto to browse paint colors. My mantra that gave me a ton of courage to do anything by myself was my uncle's wisdom, "You can always repair it." I think it was that same Christmas that my Aunt and Mom gave my grandparents a gift of painting their living room for them. I was mildly surprised and waited for the final results. The room was a beautiful shade of butter cream and they did an amazing job. Score one for the ladies.
When my husband and I began to look into painting our walls, the process began about 3 months ago as we began to browse palates, complimentary hues, and even mustered the courage to *gasp* take home paint chips. Easter weekend we finally took the plunge and bought the supplies. While the Orange Bible of Home Improvement (read: Home Depot's 1,2,3) stated it was easy and inexpensive, I have a Visa bill that would state otherwise. Our Saturday night was spent washing the walls, patching, and masking. Sunday we actually broke out our paint.
It wasn't anything drastic. We had some MAJOR decisions between "innocence," "polar ice," and "Swiss coffee." Oh the drama between these shades of white! We rolled the Swiss coffee onto the walls of our bathroom Easter Sunday night and forewent the planned dinner of lamb chops and scalloped potatoes. Instead we settled for a "festive" dinner of Papa John's pizza.
That night the paint fumes must have gotten to Edgar because as if on cue with the 5:45 alarm clock, he barfed all over me and our clean sheets. I should also mention that the laundry room was pretty much blocked off with all of our painting prep as well, but somehow I had a load in by 6:00 and barfer boy looked rather apologetic. Aside from a few other problems, issues, etc, we did a pretty decent job. However, by Thursday our steam was running dry. Our norm was becoming sodium loaded take-out, eating dinner at our kitchen table in the living room, stepping on the paper boxes and tarps, and blue masking tape stuck to our socks and Edgar's fur. Our house is a disaster.
Our "break" has turned into 3 days. We finally admitted defeat when it came to our 20 foot high wall and cathedral ceilings. We hired someone who will come in to do both of these and helped us pick an "accent" color for one of our large walls. While J and I were leaning toward a smoky blue, our painter (in his expertly color coordinated suit) suggested a cappuccino to "bring out the earthy warm tones you are obviously drawn to." Obviously. Obviously? The guy works as a consultant for Ethan Allen as his real gig and although he wears a wedding ring, I can't help but wonder given his natural talents and flair.
It seems like this process is taking FOREVER and yet we both feel as if we're running a marathon. Today my one goal is to sand down the trim and start with that. Perhaps, just perhaps, we can reclaim the bathroom as ours this evening.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Friday, March 21, 2008
Do You See What I See?
Hallelujah! Daylight savings is upon us and Spring has officially sprung! As much as I love my blue light and the strange eerie castings it sheds across my profile most mornings, I will gladly trade it in for some bonafide sunshine and 50 degree days. I would rather give Edgar tons of baths watching the mud stream from his four paws and scrawny legs from the daily walks than be tormented by darkness at 5:00 PM. I'd rather heed the spring tornado sirens than keep watching Indiana weather forecasters embarrass themselves daily by *predicting* inches upon inches of snow only to get a scuff. Seriously, they at least get the tornado warnings right.
Back in February we had an unusual thaw. I was working late that night and was just trying to get home to beat the storm front moving into the area. Driving home I had to over correct a number of times just to keep straight in the gusting winds. When the hail started I prayed that they wouldn't reach golf ball diameters and cause my car damage. And then when the lightening bolts started, I had seriously thought I had been transported to the Emerald City as the sky was THAT GREEN. Now I see how Mr. Frank Baum got his "inspiration" for that whole tornado, Oz, Emerald City association. All he needed to do was somehow write about the stench of ozone that is not unlike rotten eggs into the plot and it would have been dead on. However, I doubt that charming detail would have made it past his editors on the first draft.
I came home to find a somewhat empty house. Opening up the small interior bathroom door I found my husband huddled in the dog's bed with Edgar on his lap. Some windows were open and the handy dandy wind-up flashlight/weather radio was in the room. What's amusing about this is that a lot of the television stations broadcast on the radio so when they keep referencing, "Look at True View Viper and see that front moving across the area," well, it somehow LOSES something. Oh yeah, I can totally see it from my bathroom radio.
Back in February we had an unusual thaw. I was working late that night and was just trying to get home to beat the storm front moving into the area. Driving home I had to over correct a number of times just to keep straight in the gusting winds. When the hail started I prayed that they wouldn't reach golf ball diameters and cause my car damage. And then when the lightening bolts started, I had seriously thought I had been transported to the Emerald City as the sky was THAT GREEN. Now I see how Mr. Frank Baum got his "inspiration" for that whole tornado, Oz, Emerald City association. All he needed to do was somehow write about the stench of ozone that is not unlike rotten eggs into the plot and it would have been dead on. However, I doubt that charming detail would have made it past his editors on the first draft.
I came home to find a somewhat empty house. Opening up the small interior bathroom door I found my husband huddled in the dog's bed with Edgar on his lap. Some windows were open and the handy dandy wind-up flashlight/weather radio was in the room. What's amusing about this is that a lot of the television stations broadcast on the radio so when they keep referencing, "Look at True View Viper and see that front moving across the area," well, it somehow LOSES something. Oh yeah, I can totally see it from my bathroom radio.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Good Night and Good Luck
Within days of me starting blogging, my paternal grandmother died. I suppose I coped through the loss by pouring my stuff into cyberspace. I wrote about the process, the grief, my reactions, and even some of the humor. One of my funnier memories was when she told my grandfather she loved him from her deathbed and he responded, "Well, good luck."
My grandfather died this past Monday.
The news was shocking, not due to its timing but more for its finality. The phone call came from my mom, which isn't surprising as although my father is a big lug sometimes referred to as "Chuckles," his heart is immense. I could picture him sitting in front of the tv, not really processing what was flashing in front of his eyes, and his head propped by his hand suggesting thoughtfulness but being nowhere near reality. There is no way my Dad could have made that call.
When my uncle moved to the East, the unsaid duties of the eldest fell to my father in taking care of his Dad. Although he is a leader in other aspects of his life, as the youngest of 4 brothers he did not do well taking charge of this family situation. I thank my aunts for really being the prime organizers of grandpa's care. My aunts were the youngest in the family of 6 and yet, like most women, they were the prime caretakers. The 3 local siblings took rotations of visiting, stocking his liquor and ice cream, and checking on his regular progress of his puzzles. My grandfather was a complex man who only needed the simple things in life.
This week, the eldest 2 brothers and their wives are flying into town to honor my grandfather's last wishes. Nothing frilly. Family only. I thought of coming in but knew that my grandfather would have my head if I spent money on a plane ticket. He would have considered that a waste. Somehow by staying here in Indy I'm doing what he would have wanted me to do. But its still hard being away from family. I miss my aunts, uncles, and cousins.
There are things that my grandpa gave me that are immense and intangible. Lessons that I reflect upon that make me proud to be his granddaughter: His love of nature, the desert, dogs, and wildlife was expansive. Some of my fondest memories are the spring trips to Southern Utah with the family. I emulated his fierce independence. I can't imagine how hard it was (or how easy) for him to legally change his name at the age of 19, revoke his religious beliefs, and fend for himself. I remember his stories about starting Utah State's newspaper, The Signpost, because that's what it started out as: a signpost they stapled articles to in the middle of campus. I admire his foresight to give domestic partners health benefits back in the 1950's when he owned a commercial artist firm and did what was right for social justice in his small microcosm. I loved going to college football games with him. It was a ritual of his "special juice" that would knock the socks off of anyone, his small radio to listen to the commentary while he was at the game, his wool blankets, and red University of Utah windbreaker. He would get season tickets with my Dad and uncle, and how I loved going with them. When I was a teenager I would often get up early on a Saturday and he would come pick me up with a picnic for us to go to the bird habitat by the Great Salt Lake. There we would dine on chocolate chip cookies and ham sandwiches while he would give me a heavy pair of binoculars and point out birds native to our land. Other times we would take the dogs for a walk along mountain trails and just talk. When I was a vet tech he couldn't wait to hear my crazy stories of what would happen and just laugh. He was the only one who called me "Alex" and said that my biggest problem was figuring out what I wanted to do. He would then follow that up with the suggestion that he thought I should be a vet. I remember his gardening and the morning he pulled my tooth out by tying a piece of string around the wobbling tooth and the other side around the door knob then slamming the door. It worked. When I was 14, I remember seeing him run down my driveway with handfuls of gauze and band aids when I passed out on the phone with my dentist's office after my wisdom teeth were pulled. He was the emergency contact and Grandma sent him out with the supplies. Ooh, my Mom was pissed because she told me NOT to get up under any circumstances and yet I did when the phone rang. I remember dancing with him and having him click his tongue to the roof of his mouth in time with the beats of the music. I remember his fantastic Christmas lights that would blink with the music. I remember looking for Rudolph from the great window of his study overlooking the valley. I remember the wonderful paper airplanes he made and the orange banana shakes he would make for us nights that we slept over. I remember him coming up to Deer Valley and taking photos of my brother and I skiing. I remember his smell. I remember his laugh and the way he would throw his head back in delight. I remember how stubborn he was. I remember how intelligent he was.
The last time I saw Grandpa it was Christmas of 2006. My husband and I stopped by to give him a gift. We ordered a puzzle of the front page of the NY Times on the day of his birth. Grandpa barely remembered me and didn't have a clue who this tall gentleman was next to me. I realized that it was going to be the last time I saw him because he was so embarrassed about his memory and I didn't want to pain him any further. I missed his 90th birthday, which was his goal...just to make it to that landmark.
Because Grandpa left his Mormon roots and assimilated to his devout Catholic wife, I'm not certain what his beliefs were about the afterlife. I think he had a pretty agnostic/atheist point of view although things change as you near your death. Many times I feel as if my other grandfather, Pop, is around me. I don't feel that with Grandpa and its hard for me. I've always felt a special connection with him and now I feel particularly alone.
My grandfather died this past Monday.
The news was shocking, not due to its timing but more for its finality. The phone call came from my mom, which isn't surprising as although my father is a big lug sometimes referred to as "Chuckles," his heart is immense. I could picture him sitting in front of the tv, not really processing what was flashing in front of his eyes, and his head propped by his hand suggesting thoughtfulness but being nowhere near reality. There is no way my Dad could have made that call.
When my uncle moved to the East, the unsaid duties of the eldest fell to my father in taking care of his Dad. Although he is a leader in other aspects of his life, as the youngest of 4 brothers he did not do well taking charge of this family situation. I thank my aunts for really being the prime organizers of grandpa's care. My aunts were the youngest in the family of 6 and yet, like most women, they were the prime caretakers. The 3 local siblings took rotations of visiting, stocking his liquor and ice cream, and checking on his regular progress of his puzzles. My grandfather was a complex man who only needed the simple things in life.
This week, the eldest 2 brothers and their wives are flying into town to honor my grandfather's last wishes. Nothing frilly. Family only. I thought of coming in but knew that my grandfather would have my head if I spent money on a plane ticket. He would have considered that a waste. Somehow by staying here in Indy I'm doing what he would have wanted me to do. But its still hard being away from family. I miss my aunts, uncles, and cousins.
There are things that my grandpa gave me that are immense and intangible. Lessons that I reflect upon that make me proud to be his granddaughter: His love of nature, the desert, dogs, and wildlife was expansive. Some of my fondest memories are the spring trips to Southern Utah with the family. I emulated his fierce independence. I can't imagine how hard it was (or how easy) for him to legally change his name at the age of 19, revoke his religious beliefs, and fend for himself. I remember his stories about starting Utah State's newspaper, The Signpost, because that's what it started out as: a signpost they stapled articles to in the middle of campus. I admire his foresight to give domestic partners health benefits back in the 1950's when he owned a commercial artist firm and did what was right for social justice in his small microcosm. I loved going to college football games with him. It was a ritual of his "special juice" that would knock the socks off of anyone, his small radio to listen to the commentary while he was at the game, his wool blankets, and red University of Utah windbreaker. He would get season tickets with my Dad and uncle, and how I loved going with them. When I was a teenager I would often get up early on a Saturday and he would come pick me up with a picnic for us to go to the bird habitat by the Great Salt Lake. There we would dine on chocolate chip cookies and ham sandwiches while he would give me a heavy pair of binoculars and point out birds native to our land. Other times we would take the dogs for a walk along mountain trails and just talk. When I was a vet tech he couldn't wait to hear my crazy stories of what would happen and just laugh. He was the only one who called me "Alex" and said that my biggest problem was figuring out what I wanted to do. He would then follow that up with the suggestion that he thought I should be a vet. I remember his gardening and the morning he pulled my tooth out by tying a piece of string around the wobbling tooth and the other side around the door knob then slamming the door. It worked. When I was 14, I remember seeing him run down my driveway with handfuls of gauze and band aids when I passed out on the phone with my dentist's office after my wisdom teeth were pulled. He was the emergency contact and Grandma sent him out with the supplies. Ooh, my Mom was pissed because she told me NOT to get up under any circumstances and yet I did when the phone rang. I remember dancing with him and having him click his tongue to the roof of his mouth in time with the beats of the music. I remember his fantastic Christmas lights that would blink with the music. I remember looking for Rudolph from the great window of his study overlooking the valley. I remember the wonderful paper airplanes he made and the orange banana shakes he would make for us nights that we slept over. I remember him coming up to Deer Valley and taking photos of my brother and I skiing. I remember his smell. I remember his laugh and the way he would throw his head back in delight. I remember how stubborn he was. I remember how intelligent he was.
The last time I saw Grandpa it was Christmas of 2006. My husband and I stopped by to give him a gift. We ordered a puzzle of the front page of the NY Times on the day of his birth. Grandpa barely remembered me and didn't have a clue who this tall gentleman was next to me. I realized that it was going to be the last time I saw him because he was so embarrassed about his memory and I didn't want to pain him any further. I missed his 90th birthday, which was his goal...just to make it to that landmark.
Because Grandpa left his Mormon roots and assimilated to his devout Catholic wife, I'm not certain what his beliefs were about the afterlife. I think he had a pretty agnostic/atheist point of view although things change as you near your death. Many times I feel as if my other grandfather, Pop, is around me. I don't feel that with Grandpa and its hard for me. I've always felt a special connection with him and now I feel particularly alone.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Indiana Jones and the Curse of Safari Irony
Well, somewhere around today I should have been landing in Nairobi with a trunk full of medical supplies, a suitcase filled with needed luxuries from home and modest clothing, and trying to barter for a bus to take us to Eldoret or perhaps book a voyage on a "commuter plane" (aka crop duster). Alas, I am indeed still in Indiana on a night forecast for freezing rain. One of my most ironic moments today was finding that the safari style is HOT for spring. Are you kidding me? Like I'm going to wear jungle prints and linen cargo pants with flashy sandals to work. Where does this stuff come from?
Ironically even once a doctor was beheaded by a machete in a village on Lake Victoria, the program director still held deep optimism that Kenya would be up and running by March. By mid-February, J and I had pretty much ruled it out for ourselves. It wasn't until literally last week that we heard March was off but they will be on for April. We still decided this wasn't a smart move although at one point in time my husband thought spending 3K on plane tickets might be a good investment for one month just to avoid doing another ward month from hell. I almost agreed with him.
Last February J had his first ward month since we'd been married. I will say the program was really wonderful to us during our first few months of newlywed bliss giving him as many "easy" months possible for us to spend time together. When February hit it was the rudest awakening by far and it brought out every ugly demon possible in a female psyche. Our only saving grace was February is the shortest month of the year.
This past Feb (as in just a few days ago) marked another hallmark so to speak. It was his last pediatric rotation. Ever. Like, he could take the boards and pass, ever. Oh my god where did the time go? We only have four short months left of residency. Two of those months will be ward months. And then, another chapter will begin for us.
Its a bit scary as we've known this change has been looming in the not so distant future for awhile, but it wasn't until the cold spell snapped this past weekend and I realized its closer than I thought. Panic began to set. So much to do in so little time.
Ironically even once a doctor was beheaded by a machete in a village on Lake Victoria, the program director still held deep optimism that Kenya would be up and running by March. By mid-February, J and I had pretty much ruled it out for ourselves. It wasn't until literally last week that we heard March was off but they will be on for April. We still decided this wasn't a smart move although at one point in time my husband thought spending 3K on plane tickets might be a good investment for one month just to avoid doing another ward month from hell. I almost agreed with him.
Last February J had his first ward month since we'd been married. I will say the program was really wonderful to us during our first few months of newlywed bliss giving him as many "easy" months possible for us to spend time together. When February hit it was the rudest awakening by far and it brought out every ugly demon possible in a female psyche. Our only saving grace was February is the shortest month of the year.
This past Feb (as in just a few days ago) marked another hallmark so to speak. It was his last pediatric rotation. Ever. Like, he could take the boards and pass, ever. Oh my god where did the time go? We only have four short months left of residency. Two of those months will be ward months. And then, another chapter will begin for us.
Its a bit scary as we've known this change has been looming in the not so distant future for awhile, but it wasn't until the cold spell snapped this past weekend and I realized its closer than I thought. Panic began to set. So much to do in so little time.
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