Thank You Notes I Neglected to Send…

Dear Sister’s Husband,
Thanks for showing me those awesome pistol grip clamps. Not only are they easy to use, but the reduced the amount of profanity used during our last DIY project. If it hadn’t been for that stroke of genius, the Better Half and I would still trying to hold spindles in place using arms, wrists, ankles, and toes; sort of like a Bob Villa version of Twister.
With much appreciation,
Jaded

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Dear Wikipedia,
Your seemingly infinite data base leaves me in awe. Without you I would have never realized that my current music taste is leaning toward post punk revival. Who knew a thirty-something housewife would be drawn into music following diligently in the steps of the Sex Pistols or the Clash. Thanks to your insight, I will be able to sleep easier at night, though maybe not with any of those songs playing on repeat in my head.
Yours truly,
Jaded

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Dear Dad,
Thank you for teaching me the joy is in the deed and not in receiving credit.
Love,
Jaded

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Dear Nate from My favorite pizza place,
Dude, you are a wealth of righteous info. Without your help, I would have never grasped the potential of fish tanks and fully appreciated the beauty of a self contained ecosystem, much less heard about this guy. Inspirational. Thanks for sharing.
Sincerely,
Jaded

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Dear Lapcat,
Thanks for showing me how to appreciate sunspots and belly rubs. We all need to stop and eat the houseplants every so often.
Your less than humble litter scooper,
Jaded

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Dear Friends,
Your fortitude is inspiring. Thank you for enduring.
to each I am a different beast,
Jaded

We spoke of changes and self-confidence, the first year first week law student and I. Being a big fish in a tiny pond fosters a false confidence in your abilities. So the first year of law school, it seems it is full of small fish from little ponds tossed into a large lake without a depth finder. A class composed of the tops of other classes from smaller watering holes. And so the process begins anew. Finding one’s place amidst brilliance. It is humbling.

I am in awe when my life parallels someone else’s. Especially in matters regarding confidence. It’s surreal, and shocking when you realize your insecurities align with those of someone you always envisioned as intelligent, confident, and better adjusted than yourself. Beneath the facades, maybe we all possess self-conscious insecurities which level the playing field, or perhaps those who don’t a too arrogant to correct their failures, not recognizing inadequacy.

As the new age of competitiveness begins, performance expectations require reevaluation. You can’t always measure yourself against your peers. There will be times when you can only try to be better than you were before and forget about being the best. We can’t all find the cure for cancer, but we can strive to be the best self we are capable of being.

Funny how it’s easier to say than to believe.

In some circles, specifically two I intersect, talking about the weather is a cover for the more serious issues which no one will be discuss because reality is either too unpleasant, too plebeian or just too fucking real.

It may be an euphemistically laden crutch or it might simply serve as an exercise in vocal resonance; nonetheless it fills the uncomfortable silence, which serves for many as a depressing disappointment of things to come, lifeless and deflated as a pricked balloon from a passed birthday. Of course there are also times when weather is nothing more than a strategic change of subject, because I’m not going to engage in a morality discussion, a political discussion, a racial discussion, or a religious debate.

Though weather is code for non-confrontational conversation in my head, it is of genuine interest to numerous males in the aforementioned circles. I mean that neither as sexist nor judgmental, just a casual observation. In rural areas, weather is a life force dictating all manner of activities for hunters, gatherers and providers.

My father-in-law was such a man. Lifelong gardner, survivor, and shoeless until the age of five or perhaps six. He supported his family operating heavy equipment, but at heart he was a man of the soil, a farmer at heart, an avid gardener and sufferer of dilemmas extension office related. He was all about fresh cabbage, citrus grown out of zone, and strawberries, tart tasting, home harvested. I was about other things, but I knew if I inquired about his interest, the conversation would continue, and he would be whole, personable, and animated in a way that makes people real, even if we find the topic of conversation non-stimulating. Seeing people, at their happiest, talking about things important to them, is a gift, for even the stodgiest of voyeurs.

Weather and I have an unbalanced, aloof relationship. I am aloof to weather’s ramifications, and weather is unbalanced and precarious like a scorned woman. I don’t do scorned women. Unless it serves a higher purpose, like empty conversation for the sake of continuity eliminating undesirable cacophonic hissing sounds. I check the stats on the weather monitor so I can engage in polite chit chat with my mother or brother-in-laws. Anything to make them comfortable and fill the requirement of polite repartee. It isn’t that I don’t want to engage in repartee, but my mind is moving beyond the moment into the next potentially stimulating opportunity….

So.

I have eluded tornados and catastrophic floodingI could say i respect the weather, but we all know the truth…I’m lucky regarding weather, whereas I’m unlucky in other ways.

Saturday, my BIL called to ask if I enjoyed the earthquake. Uh, earthquake? You mean the cheap ride at the mini golf hut? No? You mean for reals. Huh? So again, I escape unscathed with little of importance to discuss in less than polite circles.

We were driving along California Highway 120, after Priest, but prior to Groveland. Absorbing the geography with all five senses in a manner common of people born in rural areas. Carefully memorizing changes in elevation, farming practices, and modern conveniences like grocery stores and fast food. Tourists in our own country. Simultaneously, we took notice of a small plot of golden poppies planted at the edge of rural post office. Even though the lunch hour was looming, performing a U-ee (U-turn) was the only option.

We turned around at the hand painted beef jerky sign, and returned to the post office to photograph the poppies. Somewhat taken aback by our rental car with out of state plates, a lovely tanned woman greeted us after we came to a complete stop, with myself carefully craning out the car window for shots of the flowers. She spoke with a friendly tone common in small towns, though rarer in larger cities, lest solicited.

She stood relaxed with hose nozzle in one hand, and garden gloves spilling out of her back pocket, mildly surprised at our interest in the small flower plot she tended. State flower, common as dandelions in my state, though how was I to know? Her surprise which instantly dissolved upon the initial note of southern twang in my accent.

She remarked the community was a small one, and the post office served as social center of the town, The flower plot, was her contribution to create a cozier atmosphere for locals to socialize. Evidence, if there is any doubt, small gestures matter.

I’ve Stared Evil in the Eye….and thy name is poison ivy.

You thought I was going to out her and post an unattractive photo, didn’t you, Meno?

So ten days ago, we went on a walk in the woods for what is best described as a covert mission under don’t ask, don’t tell.The trail to the lake was flanked with the diabolical three leafed vine. It was never a question of whether I would get a poison ivy rash, but how far would it it spread and how long will it last.

It took almost five days for it to appear in all its glory. Undoubtedly it started with a patch the size of nickel, until I spread it to my stomach, neck and shoulder. Nice. While not as grotesques as previous outbreaks, I had to beg for a poison ivy pity fuck.

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I hate not posting a blogroll, but since my familial stalker has been lurking on blogs I linked to, I feel more protective about such things. I see no need in the rest of you being stalked be someone emotionally unbalanced.

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I visit Woolgathering and Urban Sketchers, drawing blogs. I like the goal of sketching everyday, but I lack the discipline necessary. I can’t commit to a regular exercise schedule, so executing a drawing a day seems unrealistic, but taking the time to sketch more frequently…

This week, we’re been spending evenings downtown on the riverfront attending concerts. Typically, we arrive a couple hours before the concert to claim a spot for our lawn chairs. I’ve been passing the time before performances with my sketchbook. It isn’t about productivity, it’s about developing good habits, do for the sake of doing and eventually it will come naturally.

Opening Night Stage. Willie Nelson performance.

Lawn Chair Couple. Train performance.

Draw Bridge. Three Dog Night and the Chatt Symphony Orchestra

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Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live ~ Norman Cousins
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If you look closely enough at situations, you can create corollaries to serve your own purposes. This typically stems from a human desire to understand why things happen rather than just chalking it up indiscriminately to shit happens. When unpleasant situations arise many of us want to understand why, as if happenstance will lessen guilt, more than the concept of an invisible hand manipulating the universe. If unpleasant situations are singular, then seldom is additional thought to motive given, it becomes merely an undesirable isolated incident.

Death comes in threes, a popular unconfirmed myth from my own family, is losing some of it’s street cred. People have been dropping like flies. Maybe daylight saving time has placed unfortunate stress on the precarious health of the ailing.

Five have passed within a month. Some closer in relation than others. Some family of family. Some knew their fate, like my sister’s uncle by marriage.

Uncle woke up Sunday, and sat on the edge of the bed for an extended amount of time. His wife asked what was wrong as it was time to get about the business of welcoming the day. Uncle replied, “Today, is the day I will die.”

Not to be sucked in by melodrama, the wife retorted, “You can’t die today. Tonight is your night to cook supper.”

At lunch, he collapsed in the kitchen.
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Life is returning to a state which will be defined as the new normal. We have resumed watching Six Feet Under on dvd. We spend more time observing the birds feed from the kitchen window. The four-legged ones, The Hunter and The Gatherer continue to be insufferable and narcissistic, but if they behaved any other way, they wouldn’t be mine.

I asked my cool SIL what she was doing with all this newfound free time, her reply, was laundry. We have to start somewhere.

During a past in-law health crisis, I read Steinbeck’s East of Eden. After a few days I noticed a voice, not my own, narrating the struggle of the human condition in my head. Days of witnessing the drama unfold, caused me to consider how Steinebeck would characterize the relationships between family members. Would he describe them with the disgust as an exhausted narrator, or would he portray them so the reader might become more sympathetic, or perhaps the characters would serve as mere instruments of pity.

This time, I’m reading David Sedaris. I enjoy the momentum of both writers, but Sedaris writes with a refreshing bluntness that emphasizes the acute balance of absolute insanity coupled with despair. I process fucked-upness with a grain of salt because the madness is seldom difficult to identify with anymore, and it is quickly congealing into the artificial well preserved flavor of normal.

The echo of Sedaris’s voice tolling around in my head makes the powerlessness more palatable, though it will never taste good.

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The business of enabling death is complicated. There is the legal side, the physical side and the compassionate side. By middle age, most of us have become acquainted with depressing terms such as living wills, and do not resuscitate (DNRs) orders. On the face of things, they seem to be straight-forward documents. If only it were really so.

In the case of the DNRs, there are levels to be considered. There is the meat and potatoes version that withholds everything. Food, water, artificial life support, antibiotics etc. There is also a tailored version in which you choose which specifically which comforts are to be extended in patient care and which are to be withheld. You might ask, what is the difference? In some instances, withholding hydration or nourishment, does not expedite the process of dying, it only makes it more uncomfortable, as the stomach acid causes pain while attempting to dissolve the lining. Some antibiotics, do not prolong death, but increase patient comfort. Pain medications can relax the body, alleviating the struggle for breath.

All situations are unique. Question your physician extensively before selecting the option that best meets the intentions of the patient for whom you are advocating. Projection is easy, but interpreting the will of the declining is not.