Coming up: Mom-boss returns bringing office anomie and vernal nascence in her carry-on bag. Pullulating pollen every which where draw tears and plug noses. Will the truffle pig persist its respiration through the night? Will our heroine ever get a full night's sleep again? A second try to meet up and non-network over coffee. Will coffee shop dyslexia triumph again and ruin all plans or shall the two finally meet? Will Adella inundate date, client, or self in her looby liquid maladroitness? The purge is upon us! Will the home every survive the Goodwill frenzy? Is a lease in the future or shall our plucky couple invest in a tent while bike-training across the country in persistently allergenic discomfort?
Mainline an anti-histamine, double check that scheduling email, and make a date to find the answers to these questions and more below...
Return of the Mom-Boss and The Ill-Fated Coffee DateDistemporitis Flails But Falters... this time...
Call off the metaphorical keggers! Send the circus bear back to its keeper. Fetch me the carpet cleaner: Mom-boss is back! And the crowd goes wild in a silent movie pie-slapping-kinda-frenetic-hush sorta way! That's right, Englettlaw is back to hobbling along with all hands on deck (and a few brains as well). And the backlog created during the preceding week is unfurling at a so-far-not-time-to-pack-up-and-hide-in-The-Andes pace. Knock on wood. It's early yet, of course.
Yesterday was a whirlwind of a tsunami of a hurricane of another meteorological event involving air currents of a catch up day. I happily unloaded several volumes of discovery documentation and analysis onto my mother's desk (and floor and chairs) and wearily warily attempted to communicate the some-sense out of nonsense that I'd made of the mire by last Friday. Obstreperous little teleporters and shape-shifters, these documents and summaries refused to respect any of the basic laws of physics and had their merry way with us. The facts and dates protean and more slippery than a lathered conger; they pitched a rousing battle against unity or sense. But in the end, perhaps, for a minute, we nailed that jello to the wall with a lethal handful of paper clips and our trusty staple gun. Until everything shifts again.
Continuing the theme of catching up, I managed to accomplish three things that had previously elluded completion: picking up my prescription for the ol' orange barracuda; dropping off my financial planning info-pack; and finally meeting with the mediator I'd unsuccessfully missed through coffee shop dyslexia and going to the wrong A-cafe on Railroad.
The orange barracuda was quite resistant to my feeble tries at pitching woo. I had attempted to refill the prescription proactively on Saturday. At that time, was informed that they had my prescription but couldn't give it to me until Monday the 17th. Insurance related nonsense. Doggedly, I returned on Monday the 17th during my lunch hour, only to be informed that they still had my prescription (phew) but it still "wasn't ready." So I went off for a spell. When I returned, we were stationed behind a woman who was hellbent on buying fifty other items at the pharmacy desk. This included some item that she had to leave the desk to retrieve. Several tedious minutes anon, the girl at the register first attempted to give me a scrip for Andrea Wright, then informed me that my prescription had gone missing. Finally one of the pharm techs showed her where it was and I managed to check out with my very orange pills. And with somebody else's little patient info sheet. My first instinct was to rip it up when I'd discovered the inadvertent error (a long "wait, dipsomithimyica? I'm not taking that!! What the??"). If I'd been a little more conscious and willing to return once again to the same damned Rite Aid. I might have returned it. Ah well.
During these shenanigans, I also dropped off my financial planning information pack. Well, "dropped off" is not the exact word. More like "expected to just drop off, but then ended up going over the packet and my mom's packet for a good forty minutes with the financial whiz." Apparently nothing I wrote was too weird, even if the numbers are entirely made up.
And finally, despite all the best efforts of my own dyslexia, I managed to make a coffee date with the mediator that had been thrown off the previous meeting by her bull-headed insistence on literally going to the coffee shop I'd suggested (Avellino's on Railroad) instead of the one that everyone else mutually inferred (Adagio on Railroad).
I did my best to muck that up, I promise. First responding to her invitation to meet today at "The Black Drop next to the Mt. Bakery" with "Great see you at the Mt. Bakery!" Then providing the wrong phone number to her in case we missed each other. I did notice my error almost immediately regarding the former misunderstanding, but it took quite the time to resolve the phone number issue, because I often leave my phone in block mode anyways.
At any rate. Shockingly, we met up. It happened. It was pretty great. Two people who hate networking having a networking coffee. We even bashfully exchanged cards at the end, mostly under the pretense of comparing our equally snappy card cases. As I suspected, mediation work in Whatcom County is difficult to find outside of the DRC, which can keep you busy, but with several inherent caveats for the would-be mediator (you have to go through their program, do a lot of volunteer and training hours first, and the pay is not exceptional since the DRC is essentially conceived as a community service allowing sliding scale income adjustments). As I also suspected, our mutual mediator acquaintance has no particularly grandiose plans beyond the blustery bloviations. Which is fine.
I believe we left it at "if I need a comediator with your skill set, it's really great to know somebody to call." But that was all handled within a five minute coda after a very nice get-to-know-you chat. Since I settled down with the bike-and-chain going on five years ago, I really haven't had that first date experience in a while. I always actually really enjoyed the first date. There's no pressure. No presumptions. No baggage. Just a chance and the extra afflatus to converse, present oneself and delve into the package of a whole new personhood, palping foil and tassles like a kid on Christmas morning. I get to trot out my "top ten Adella 3.01" features and be reminded of the non-standard bits and pieces of self that I take for granted. Meanwhile, my inner-repressed-writer-figure gets to feast on a whole grand character study. Since I'm all about context and the context is getting-to-know-each-other, I'm far less shy about just barraging my colloquitor with questions and seeing where it takes us.
My coffee date is a law school escapee (Law School from the South during the Civil Rights Era), who then got sucked into the government and escaped that too. She does dressage and lives in the county. She has two kids who've just moved back to the state. She's primarily an artist and does large mixed media sculptor and print work of highly detailed full-room construction. To get access to equipment, she works part time at one of the remaining photo labs in town. She teaches a class at the community college. And although she got into mediator mostly to pay the bills, she's probably the most heavily requested mediator at the DRC (that's from my experience of scuttlebutt and her own acknowledgment that she's often busy). We interluded with chats about Bellingham's rough and rowdy history (and art installation she did at the old museum involved a lot of research), and how studying mediation had impacted our relationships with ourselves more than any of the participants. We began to lapse into the odd silence just around the time I had set to get home, so we talked a little bit of shop on the way out and hugged goodbye.
Anyways, while I continue to hate networking and don't imagine that I"m going to start doing the often advised "coffee a week with a colleague," it was fun to have another little experience meeting an entirely new person and allowing circumstance to swap our stories.
And even more than that, it was nice just to survive the caprices of destiny and actually make a meeting that I had planned several months ago at this point!
I am not getting cocky here, but I am hoping that maybe the increased allergies in the air can replace that persistent distemporitis as my new main affliction for the month!
Biblical Builds and Training Madness
I am not entirely certain where we are in the Biblical training schedule. I know roughly that "Base" has come and gone. I believe there was one full cycle of "build" (not a cross-training exercise where you get to stay home and play with legos, sadly, but more like Base++ with more structured heart-burster workouts and more time "in the saddle"). There was definitely a rest week, which I recall mostly because there was this disorienting presence of husband during my weekend. Disorienting, of course, because he is so intoxicatingly pretty that I just couldn't stop my starry-eyes from their concupiscent oeillade. And a good ogle can lead to eyestrain.
So given that I recall a "build" and a "rest", I suppose "we" are in "build 2" or maybe "erector set 1.03". Something along those lines. Anyways, it's a slightly more demanding schedule at the moment. One made all the more difficult this week by the fact that we have ballet tickets on Sunday. Since the ballet is on a Sunday afternoon in Seattle, this more or less removes one of Andrew's heavier cycling days from the training table. He's been doing a little logistical limbo to fit everything in. This turns out to have been a great time for Daylight Savings to bitchslap our temporal complacence (cavil cavil). He's been getting home from work and heading right back out on the bike these last couple of days.
I've been... delaying dinner. For him. And eating my portion of what I've made for "us" as lunch the next day. Because I don't wait until 8 to eat dinner.Heavy stomachs just are not concinnous with heavy sleep. But since my idleness of last week has finally led us down the path of having exhausted all the leftovers stock piled in more productive weeks, I'm getting to be a fan of the giant one-pot meal. I can make Andrew's dinner around the time when I'm having my second dinner, and then just let it sit and simmer until whenever he gets home. In the meantime, if I've been a good girl and done my chores and Physical Therapy early and efficiently, it gives me some simmering time to read or wool-gather. Possibly both at the moment, since I'm plowing through Murakami's Wild Sheep Chase. Which inevitably, again, is bringing me back to Dance Dance Dance, a bit of a prequel that I read and adored some years ago.
Andrew actually tapped out a little yesterday. Apparently trying to fit your seven day insane training plan into six days, and then squishing two planned workouts into one day so at least you have a days' break instead of 8 consecutive crazy days... apparently you might eventually start to feel the heaviness in your legs during that third interval of the second long ride of the day. This is not as dramatic as it sounds, but it did have a rather shocking result of his cutting an evening ride short! Completely discombobulating, but fortuitous, as I'd just finished the final touches on his dinner. And I'd dawdled over an ovine obsession just a touch, so I was late for my second dinner. Meaning we ended up eating around the same time.
Tonight is date night! That is definitely cross-training requisite in all cycles and phases of build/base/battle/burble/blood-shed. Hopefully my handsome bike-and-chain is up to the high training demands of a dinner out and a vigorous session of couch cuddling. We'll have to check his infographics on strava afterwards and see if it digs him further "into the hole"
Let the Grand Spring Purge Commence!! Or gradually transude into existence by making more of a mess before being less of one.
It's been nearly a year since the bike-and-chain and I moved into our current place. We still love it, although there are certainly drawbacks. The abundant oriels grant both delectable views and some pretty significant temperature fluctuations depending on the UV content of said view. The bedroom is spacious, beautiful, and guaranteed to be the coldest in winter and hottest in summer. The space is craftily concocted to fit more house per square inch than imaginable, but this deal-with-the-devil seems to have resulted in extraneous electrical outlets and idiosyncrasies throughout the neatly compressed domicile. The house's maquillage is clever and fun, but - having been gussied up by the previous owners in hopes of improving resale value and with no eye towards longevity - its beginning to clump and tire. The location is fantastically proximate to Galbraith and the Freeway, but actually necessitates Andrew's driving back into town in order to meet his carpool. And the yard is lovely, but otiose; it mostly exists as an additional cost during summer months.
Bottom line, I'd love to live here another year or two, but my heart won't split assunder if that's not possible. At least from loss of home alone (Home Alone! AAAAAAAAAAH - that was my Macaulay Culkin impression, by the way... you're welcome!). The idea of moving again drops a minor pineapple-acai-cherry bomb right into the depths of my gut.
A few days ago, I gingerly floated the idea of extending our lease by our landlady. She indicated that there's a chance her daughter will be moving back this way and will want the place come September of this year. We'll know more in about a month. If not, she'd be happy to extend the lease. If so, she offered to draw up a shorter lease until September.
Andrew and I considered all this and immediately felt crushed by our possessions. There was a side discussion about probably being better off moving earlier than September and avoiding any shorter term leases if it came to that. But mostly it was the realization that despite downsizing significantly last year, and despite all the shenanigans of Adella's quarterly purge sessions, we still have a whole crap-ton of detritus. And the idea of moving all that junk just does not appeal. At all.
So, while we have no idea whether we may be staying or leaving any time soon, this reminder of uncertainty has kickstarted ("investment" opportunities available on the website of course) a wee depurative campaign in the (W)right home. Mostly in my little corner of it. And by "my little corner" I allude to a specific corner of the house that has become my "Goodwill" staging corner. I've piled up an old back pack, the perfectly pristine blender I love but never use (I have become the DINK version of those folks with car-carcasses arrayed on their lawn: do I really need a blender, an immersion blender, a grinder, and two food processors? We shall ignore the microwave, rice cooker, slow cooker, coffee maker, toaster, stove, oven, fridge, freezer and accoutrements, as these are obvious necessities of life), the food processor that works but not as well as my new one, and two bags of stuff. I have another back piling up at the office.
Riding this organizational wave, I spent a good chunk of last weekend organizing my socks. I do this from time to time, as orphans start to accumulate over the year. Unless I've gone through them all and individually sorted them, I don't really know which ones are genuine orphans and which are merely having a time-out period from their sole-mate sock.
As you may have noticed (1) While a sparkly scattered free-spirited little pixietoes, I also have an analytic function on overdrive, and this manifests in all kinds of complex analogies and mental sorting; (2) I have a lot of different themes in my sock collection. So, I also tend to go through and put like socks with other like socks while I am doing this. The obvious ones are my holidaze sockerie - sockmas, valensock, St. Patty's socks, socktober, etc. - but of course several other categories emerge. I have a box of Bluesday socks, a box of argyles, a box of stripes, a box of polka dots, a box of sparkly shimmery socks, a box of short summer socks, and so on.
The more important mini categories are those on display in my
Andrew, for his part, has done nothing in particular with his socks (although they often hang from his drying rack in "the study" and he may well have more shoes than I do in his closet-shoe rack). He has more seriously considered getting rid of his extra pair of skis, possibly getting rid of all the books he's been carting from home to home for years without any articulable purpose, and possible minimizing some of his bike stuff. We shall see what may come. I was originally scheduling our purge day part one for this weekend, but now that the big part they've been waiting for for several months has apparently arrived, Andrew's not sure he won't be working this weekend to make up for lost time.
Either way, it will continue to get messier before it gets cleaner. The living room looks particularly lived-into-the-ground at the moment. But this just serves to stoke the urge ever more!
Adios extra stuff!! Hello spring cleaning bug.
Engage the Airbags and Pump up the Air Filter It ain't just spring that's sprung
Judging by my limited data set of "the last ten or fifteen minutes" I might boldly assert that it is more likely than not that today may just be gearing up to earn it's "one of those days" denomination. With a broader sampler, that isn't guaranteed, of course. I managed to make it all the way through breakfast without splattered food, pyrotechnics or shattering glassware. But at work, it's been a bit of a backslide. First I bumped my hand while making coffee, spewing ebony oblivion across the clean dish dryer (and underneath every conceivable nook and cranny). Then, my tea bag managed to get caught under the plate in the microwave. Not necessarily a problem unless you attempt to remove the tea mug from the microwave, and action which will cause the bag to dive for one freedom in exchange for eternal tethering to the microwave. With a kersplat of course. And then a recoil from the diving tea bag prompting hand bumping slooshing of all related liquid. In the end, the microwave was cleaned, but for a brief spell it won both the tea bag and all related liquid associate with said bag. It is now on a time out.
I am just hoping the trend can be stemmed before I baptize my incoming client with my full armory of beverage options. Welcome to Englettlaw, have a wet bar! Oh sorry, no glasses! Have a paper towel or twenty! Not a bad idea, having a liquor license in a divorce office though. I don't see anything going horribly awry as a result whatsoever! But, carefully controlled, it could be quite the financial boon... maybe eventually phase out the lawyering bit and add a little musical revue... I'm sure that's permissible under our lease terms!
But well, spring is just so erumpent that life will out - leaping in bounds and splashes, perhaps... or in kind of a rotting fishy smell, if you have the fortune to live in New Jersey and own a koi pond. Apparently, while fish can theoretically be frozen and thaw back alive, they may not come back quite so alive if they were first oxygen deprived. Asphyxiated koi in the thawing pond... a true harbinger of spring. Who's ready for a cook out? And the bike and chain is bike to the sweet truffle pig serenades of prior springs. Sleep was fun, but I guess I'll catch it again in the winter months. In the meantime, pass the claritin!
Happy spring! Keep the sippy cups on hand and watch out for those microwaves!